


Scattered

by HawkSong



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Gen, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Spoilers, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 61,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkSong/pseuds/HawkSong
Summary: Just making a single work to hold my attempts for the FFXIV Write 2020 thing! It's going to get random, possibly smutty, and almost certainly silly
Comments: 90
Kudos: 50
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. Crux

**Author's Note:**

> Just making a single work to hold my attempts for the FFXIV Write 2020 thing! It's going to get random, possibly smutty, and almost certainly silly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tataru takes it upon herself to take care of the Scions, and sometimes that means asking the uncomfortable questions

“Alphinaud? What on earth are you doing still awake at this hour?”

Tataru watched as the young man started and then tried to cover the reaction.

“Ah, Tataru, I – I was still catching up on those documents you gave me to read over.”

A lie. She clearly saw the sketch book lying open on top of those very documents. He'd not been sketching, though – just staring. No doubt about it, then. Alphinaud and Berylla had reached some sort of understanding, and he was brooding over the warrior. Now to ferret out why.

“She's fine, you know.”

His eyes fixed on hers and he seemed, for one instant, to hold his breath. Then he slumped a little, and looked away. “I know she is. They all are quite capable of taking care of themselves. It is only...”

“It can't be that you don't want to work with me, can it?” she asked, giving him one of her less devastating puppy-eyed looks. He jerked his gaze back to her face and began to stammer, and she laughed quietly. “Oh, I'm only teasing, Alphinaud! It's only natural to worry about your sister...”

“It's not _Alisaie_ I worry for,” Alphinaud muttered, and swiped at his bangs.

Tataru smiled. “So it is Berylla, then.”

The look of shock on his face was too good, and she savored it for a moment before she continued. “I'm not blind, you know.”

“I – I am not certain what I ought to say. Tataru, what are you after?”

“I only want to know a few things,” Tataru told him, and set her hands on her hips. “Starting with why you are so very upset about Berylla going off to do her job.”

“I – I am not upset because of that.” He frowned at her tiny noise of doubt. “I truly am not upset simply because we are apart, Tataru. It's just...” He sighed. “This is a most uncomfortable subject.”

“Too bad. Keep talking.”

“It's Alisaie,” he admitted, and leaned his head on his hands. “She's after Berylla...”

“Do you trust Berylla or not?”

“Of course I trust her! It's my damnable _sister_ I don't trust!” He stopped, looking appalled at his own words. He covered his eyes with one hand. “This cannot be happening,” he mumbled. “Why – ”

“For one thing, because you're already trying to run yourself into the ground. For another, because of how torn up Berylla has been about you.” Her glance at him was keen. “Which I believe you know already.”

He winced, and she nodded. “I thought I heard someone lurking.”

“I didn't intend – ”

“Of course you didn't.” She waved one hand, dismissing his flustered words. “Normally I would not bother you about private affairs. You're adults after all. But Berylla...”

She crossed her arms, looking at the ground as she chose her words carefully. “Berylla doesn't always understand how to do things the way a normal person would. I don't pretend to understand why, because it doesn't very much matter to me why she acts the way she does. What matters to me is what can, and has, happened to her because of it.” Tataru sighed. “That's why I'm watching over her. She was hurt once before – badly, very badly. I won't see it happen again, not if I can do something about it anyway.”

“...Who hurt her?”

“That's for her to talk about. I'm only explaining why I take a personal interest in who she sleeps with.”

“We – we are not – s-sleeping together.” Alphinaud's words were choked and his face was very pink, all the way to his neck.

“Not yet, anyway.”

His mouth opened, then shut, and his blush deepened. Tataru waved her hand again.

“It doesn't matter. I don't care if you're sharing a bed, Alphinaud, I care about whether or not you're being healthy in how you deal with her.”


	2. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien enjoys a bit of Moonfire Faire entertainment. Too bad no one has ever given him tequila before...

It was far too hot here.

Estinien plucked at the gaudy, ridiculous shirt Nightbird had cozened him into wearing, and checked – again – the tie of the odd skirt-like garment. She was wearing a similar one, but it looked natural on her. Meanwhile, he felt like he'd just slung a towel around his hips. Normally that would not bother him. But normally, he did not interact with crowds...certainly not this sort of crowd.

And it was hotter than the sixth hell!

But he stayed, and let Nightbird lead him from booth to booth. He let her feed him bits of odd food, and watched her enjoy herself thoroughly. He admitted to himself that the strange drink she'd shoved into his hand was pleasant – more than sweet enough to have made Aymeric happy, even if it was a most unnatural shade of blue...

The drink helped with the heat, as well. He took another sip, and smiled a little as Nightbird laughter rang out over the chatter of the crowd around them. Maybe when the sun had fully set, this sticky heat would subside a little.

They finally left the worst of the crowding behind them, as Nightbird headed for a bit of grass where people were spread out a bit more, in some kind of – line?

He stopped at the edge of the grass, absently taking another sip of his drink, and let her continue into the group. He was glad he had when he figured out what they all were doing.

Dancing.

Not the sort of thing he had any interest in, even if the way the women's hips swayed was quite...interesting. He fixed his eyes on his lover, and realized that she was also dancing now – just as competently as any of them. He watched her, mesmerized by the gentle motions.

She was better than the rest of them. And far more beautiful than she had any right to be, out here where anyone could see her...

But all the men around her now were dancing too, concentrating hard it seemed, and paying her no mind. Even the people scattered around the edge of the grassy area seemed content to watch, and not hoot and holler at the dancers.

A most odd celebration in some ways. He could have predicted the various games and nonsensical entertainments and perhaps even the surging crowds and babbling children. But this – this oddly respectful observation of what would, in Ishgard, have been considered a thoroughly scandalous display...

He raised his glass, and realized his drink was gone. He shrugged, and looked about – there had been small tables placed all over, apparently intended for folk to set such things down upon – and finding one, stepped over and set down the empty glass.

Then he returned to the edge of the grass, and watched Nightbird dance a little bit more.

He nearly startled out of his skin when the first boom echoed through the sky. The dancers all stopped, and the whole flock of them scattered like pigeons – but they were all laughing and smiling as they did so. Not one voice was raised in alarm at a sound very like cannon shot – why?

Nightbird's hand was on his arm even as he scanned the area, looking for the danger that surely must be imminent, of cannons were being fired.

“Estinien, it's just the fireworks,” she told him.

He frowned down at her. “Fireworks?”

“Mhm,” she gave him a sunny smile, completely unfazed by his glower. “They'll do a real show as soon as the sun has gone down. I was about to ask you to find us a good spot to watch them.”

“A good spot?”

“I don't think either one of us wants to try to sit on the edge of the beach.” She gestured, and he saw that the shore was rapidly filling – people gathering, some sitting and others not, all facing towards the sea, and the great lighthouse that marked the end of the bay and the beginning of the deeper waters of the Rhotano. From somewhere near the lighthouse, a bright streak of fire shot towards the sky, screaming, like a shooting star in reverse – and then it was gone. He startled again, though not as strongly, when after a heartbeat, a veritable fountain of colored sparks exploded, accompanied by another of those cannon-fire booms.

He realized his mouth was open when Nightbird giggled, and snapped his teeth together with a click. He looked back to her face and caught her covering her mouth. He grimaced at her. “So you want a high place to view this...show...from?”

“If you would be so kind, sir dragoon.” She hugged his arm, and he let go of his irritation. This whole festival was ludicrous, but if it made her smile like this – laugh like this – he'd tolerate it for a few hours more.

He lifted his eyes and scanned the island. There were a lot of tents and pavilions and the like, but only two more robust structures – one was clearly some sort of watch-tower, and the other was the very large, round “hut” – a stylized version of an actual dwelling – which held the bar.

The watch-tower was already occupied – there were folk draping themselves along every bit of the steps that wound around it and the top part was filling even as he watched. They would likely be quite upset if he leaped up the structure to get onto the roof. He had a feeling this was not a place accustomed to the movements of dragoons...

But the roof over the bar was wide and not quite so conical...hm. There was even some flat space up there.

He put his hands on Nightbird's waist. “Ready?”

She laughed. “Always, love.” She wound her arms around his neck and planted a warm kiss on his mouth.

He scooped her up and carried her for a little way, until he reached a good spot from which to leap up onto the roof.

The moment he landed, he leaped again, going higher, until he had taken them up to the top.

The space there was not large by any means – but it was enough to let the two of them sit. Estinien put himself behind Nightbird, his legs framing her. He bent one knee, and she leaned against his thigh and into his chest, even as he put one arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

Everything had a pleasant softness to it, now – the light was fading, and he told himself that his sight was not at all affected by the liquor he'd consumed. Up here, there was a delicious breeze to cool the skin. He sat up a little and pulled off the ridiculous shirt, with its white flowers on a dark plum-purple background, to let the wind caress his bare back.

The last blush of rose-red in the western sky faded.

There was a long moment of silence, as the crowd hushed, clearly anticipating what was coming. The breeze sighed across the two of them, and the tall palm trees dotted here and there around the island swayed.

When the fireworks began, even the sound of them was softer, and Estinien had to admit it to himself, very quietly: he was just a touch drunk.

But he didn't worry about it. He just held Nightbird to him, and let his head tilt back to watch the colorful flowers and streamers of fire in the sky. He had never spent so much time just – not worrying about very much. It was...remarkably pleasant.

“Soon,” Nightbird said to him, between volleys of fireworks, “I'll need to take a long vacation. I was hoping you would be able to join me, since your...contract with the Scions is up.”

He nuzzled her hair. “I can consider it,” he answered, smiling a little. “Things are, after all, a little calmer these days around the city.”

She turned, until she was kneeling, her arms around his middle and her face tilted up toward him. The breeze played with her hair.

“I can promise it will be much quieter than this,” she smiled. “I've a little place in mind, far from everything and everyone.”

“Oh, so you've been planning this for some time,” he answered, and pretended to frown. “Were you planning to go alone, or were you going to search for some other companion if I had still been in Garlemald?”

She made a face, and pinched his side a little. “I would never, and you know it, you devil.”

He grinned, pleased to have gotten a reaction from her. Those amber eyes of hers twinkled; she knew as well as he did how their little games tended to end.

Then she kissed him, and the whole world ceased to matter. His head filled with the scent of her, the taste of her – more intoxicating than all the liquor in the world. Her tongue was hot in his mouth, and he pulled her closer, crushing her to him, eager for more.

They ignored the fireworks going on overhead, kissing and caressing with slow movements.

But after a little, Nightbird eased back. “Much as I would like to continue, perhaps on the roof is not the...most secure place for such activities.” Her words were quiet, and more than a little breathless.

Estinien started to argue with her, when the world seemed to tilt for just a moment. He grunted, and then sighed. “Much as I would like to prove you wrong,” he managed, “I think perhaps I will leave that for some other time.”

She smiled. “Can you get us down from here?”

He had to think about it. “Maybe in a little while longer. What was in that blue drink, anyway?”

She started to giggle, then to laugh. “Tequila,” she managed through her laughter. “Oh, my dear dragoon. You're swaying.”

“Am not,” he muttered, and grabbed her to hold her close again. “The wind picked up, that's all.”

Her mouth was laughing even as he kissed her again.


	3. Muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berylla Seahawk doesn't know much about fancy devices, but she knows more than she used to - just enough to get herself into a spot of trouble...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place post patch 5.3!

Berylla Seahawk was down on one knee in the middle of a crowd of children, in the play yard beside Rolanberry Field. The orphanage was not the only one in Ishgard, but it was the only such establishment in the area now known as the Nest. Berylla had taken a special interest in this orphanage ever since her time aiding in the Restoration project; few as her visits were, she always spent as much time directly with the children there as she could. She let her friends handle anything that required speaking to the administrators and care-givers.

There were far fewer orphans, now – when this place had opened its doors, it had instantly been at capacity, sheltering a hundred little ones. But it was hardly a bad thing, to have fewer orphaned children...

“So how many of these do you have?” asked a little blond Elezen boy, as he finished petting the little chocobo hatchling in its tall white and gold hat.

“...You know, I'm not even sure anymore? The device isn't full, but...I've just been kind of stuffing them in there as I get 'em.” Berylla shrugged and pressed the “recall” button on her minion box – the device that held all such creatures in aetherial stasis. The hatchling whistled once, and disappeared.

“Can we look?” The whole crowd of children – the two dozen currently still housed here – made big eyes at her and chorused, “ _Please?_ ”

Berylla thought about it, then smiled. “Eh, sure, why not? They can't cause trouble.”

She stood up, and moved over to the big table in the corner of the yard. She sat on the bench there, and set down her minion box. “Let me just...poke a setting or two,” she muttered, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. “There!” She began tapping buttons.

The children, meanwhile, had gathered around the table, eyes wide and shining with anticipation.

“Now, just like I already told you,” Berylla said to them, “You can touch, but be very gentle, and don't try to pick any of them up. At least a few of them have pointy bits...and attitudes.”

A soft chorus of “Yes ma'am” went up, and she nodded, and pressed the large red button on the top of the box.

With a quiet whoosh of displaced air, a little globe of greenish light appeared on the table in front of the red-haired warrior. Then, the orb faded, and a model airship hovered a few inches above the wooden surface. Its rotors whirred, and it began making a circuit around the yard, just above head height for most of the children. A few moments after the airship took off, there was another whoosh, another orb, and then another small minion – this time, an excited wolf pup with a red bandanna around his neck, who yipped twice and jumped down off the table to romp around every set of ankles in sight.

Berylla smiled, pleased with herself.

Sure, the device wasn't supposed to release more than one minion at a time. But compared to the weird things she'd been helping G'raha with, before he had re-sealed the Tower...the inner workings of the storage devices seemed awfully simple. She'd even remembered the little trick he had showed her, and reprogrammed the minions stored in the device, to give them a little more autonomy. Might as well make this visit as fun for the kids as she could.

Their little faces lit up, as one minion after another appeared.

A tiny Alexander stomped about the yard and every so often, would “cast a spell.” It was of course nothing but a bit of illusion, a flash of light, but it enchanted the boys who followed it. The model Imperial Vanguard was a touch less exciting, standing at attention and doing little else.

Until the first “people shaped” minion arrived.

Berylla half frowned at first. She'd forgotten that she had a mammet of Nero Scaeva. But the kids were instantly enamored of it – naturally.

“Look at his armor! And what is that he's holding? Is it a _real_ gun-blade?”

Whoever had actually crafted the thing had known Nero fairly well. The doll posed and preened for a moment under the attention, then proceeded to leap down onto the grass.

At which point the Vanguard noticed him, and stamped over, pointed arms raised in an obvious threat.

“They're going to fight!!”

Berylla stirred, a little concerned now – but, when she saw that the two minions were really just going through the motions, not _actually_ hitting each other, she relaxed again. The device in front of her whirred once more, and she couldn't help but laugh to herself when she saw the little replica of Cid Garlond standing on the table. He paced around the table for a little while, then plunked himself down on the edge of the table – apparently to watch the unfolding battle below him.

The yard was quite lively already, and the noise level only cranked up a notch as Siara the coeurl kitten appeared. She had been Berylla's very first minion, and remained one of her favorites.

Siara took one look at the proceedings, and vaulted herself at the wolf pup.

“Oh crap, I forgot about that,” Berylla muttered, but – as with Scaeva and the Vanguard – it was all posturing and no real violence. The pup barked, and Siara arched her back and hissed – and then the two of them pretended to lose interest in each other altogether. Berylla knew they'd just repeat that little dance – every few minutes they would “notice” each other again. She'd seen Siara do the same to another puppy minion; it had just been quite a while since it actually happened.

Her little red panda was next to appear, but it scampered immediately onto her shoulder and hung onto her hair as if for dear life. It chattered quietly to her, not liking the noise. She stroked its fur and let it be.

Then, the device hiccuped, and three orbs appeared at once. Berylla blinked.

But the instant the orbs faded to reveal the new arrivals, all the children who weren't off chasing after Alexander took instant notice.

“Look, look, look!!!”

“It's Lord Haurchefant! And Ser Aymeric!”

“And the Azure Dragoon too! Just like in the picture books!”

The three figures stood still for a moment, just looking around. Berylla put one hand over her mouth. She never took these out of storage, and she was reminded of why, as her chest ached. Maybe she shouldn't have left the thing on random.

The Aymeric figure and the armored dragoon looked at the Haurchefant who stood between them, and they clapped him on his shoulders. Berylla thought she might actually cry.

There was a whoosh of another sort from behind her, and then a small voice. “What on earth is happening here?”

Ehll Tou flapped into the yard, her eyes bright with curiosity, and landed on the table top.

“Oh, hello,” Berylla said to the little dragon. “Just thought I might...let the kids have some fun...” Her voice trailed off as her eyes widened. “Oh, no. Ehll Tou, you might want to get in the air...!”

But her warning was a touch too late. The three figures had taken note of her. They had all been made before the end of the Dragonsong War, and like any other mammet they had no real memories or personalities beyond what had been programmed...

The dragoon was first to attack, but Aymeric and Haurchefant were not far behind.

Ehll Tou cried out in surprise as the dragoon's lance nearly got her in the eye, then grunted as she was tackled by the other two. “Help!”

“Oh for the love of – _hey!_ ” Berylla stood up hastily, and tried to pluck the dragoon away. “Fly, Ehll Tou!”

The dragon child managed to flap her way free of her attackers, even as Berylla dropped the dragoon, who had stabbed her hand with his lance in miniature fury. “Ouch!”

The orphans, however, whooped in delight.

“Give 'em what for, Ehll Tou!”

“No, Ser Aymeric will get a hit in!”

Ehll Tou, meanwhile, flapped in an agitated circle for a moment, then made a diving attack against the three Ishgardians, knocking them right off the table.

Berylla could only stare. She wasn't sure how to make them come _back_ , now. This hadn't been as good an idea as she'd hoped...

Then she realized that in her haste to help the little dragon, she'd knocked the minion box off the table.

She bent down to retrieve it, and it began to shake.

And then all seven hells broke loose in miniature.

Orbs appeared all over the place, so rapidly that they hadn't yet fully activated when another attempted to manifest – forcing the newer orb away a few inches. The table was surrounded in no time. On Berylla's shoulder, her panda made a noise of dismay not unlike the one she herself was making.

The children were no longer in a little group near the table. They were running all over the yard, screaming with laughter, as every single animal minion Berylla owned scampered around in excitement. Many of the critters begged for petting and attention, but enough of them were bent on mayhem that the noise level skyrocketed.

Thankfully the winged pegasus colt seemed content just to show off his fancy flying; but the unicorn colt appeared bent on ramming his tiny nubbin of a horn into every leg in sight. There might have been yelps of pain had he been any bigger. The bom boko, her Far Eastern raccoon, was scurrying up and down from one child's shoulder to the next, leaving a wake of shrieks and giggles as he inspected pockets and ears and, finding no treats, uttered a little raccoon curse and went on to the next victim. He wasn't hurting them – probably – but it certainly didn't help the chaos when the komainu – faithful guardian that it was – tried to chase him down.

The fat cat – a very recent addition to her collection – simply plopped itself down on the bench and promptly curled up for a nap. Seeing the ball of fluff, several others – including the moogle and the gaelikitten – joined it, clambering on top of the cat or just tucking themselves next to it. The moogle squeaked when the cat reached out and “hugged” it with one forelimb, but didn't struggle.

It would have been adorable, exactly the kind of thing Berylla had hoped for, but now it just made her roll her eyes in exasperation.

She managed to pick up the minion box at last, as one more orb appeared, this time on the wall at the edge of the yard. She sighed deeply when she saw the elegant figure – a recreation of Y'Shtola in her lovely black gown that she'd worn on the First. The mammet took a long look at the bedlam in the yard, and then turned her little face towards Berylla, crossing her arms in silent but obvious reproach.

“It's not – I didn't mean to – oh for fuck's sake,” Berylla muttered, “why am I trying to talk to a mammet...?”

Then, the box in her hands shuddered once more, made an awful squalling noise, and then fell silent and still...except for the thin line of blue smoke rising from the casing.

“Oh...”

Before the big warrior could start swearing aloud, a voice called out from across the yard.

“What did you _**do**_ , Berylla??”

She looked up, cheeks already reddening as her friends came around the corner and stopped at the gate that let into the play yard.

Alisaie's eyes were dancing and she didn't even try to hide her amusement – though she at least didn't laugh out loud. She leaned one elegant hand on the gate post and cast a glance around at the pandemonium.

Alphinaud looked surprised, mouth open, but when his eyes met Berylla's, he snapped his mouth closed and frowned at her.

But it was G'raha who had called out, and now it was G'raha who lightly leaped over the gate entirely, and nimbly made his way to her side, somehow managing not to trample any children – or critters – on his way.

“What on earth...?” His eye lit on the smoking box in her hands. “You didn't.”

He reached out and took the minion box away from her, and set it on the wall – which put it at a convenient height for him to work on it.

“I didn't...I didn't know it would do all this!” Berylla gestured wildly at the continuing happy cacophony behind them. “I just...oh never mind. I messed up, and why can wait until later, but...you _can_ fix it...right?”

G'raha smiled at her plaintive tone. “I ought to be most angry with you, you know. Allagan command-line instructions were never meant to be used thus.”

“I didn't...” Berylla clamped her mouth shut, her cheeks still flaming red, and G'raha laughed quietly.

“Do you need me to...to do anything?” she managed after a moment. “Like..I don't know, should I try to catch them all...?”

She glanced over her shoulder, in time to see Alphinaud plucking the bom boko off his own arm, just before the creature got its paws on his silver earring. He held the creature by its scruff and shot her a dirty look. Alisaie was, by now, openly laughing, holding her sides, utterly useless.

Berylla rubbed the bridge of her nose gently and tried to take a couple calming breaths.

“Aha!”

She looked back at G'raha to see that he had pulled out some kind of delicate looking tool, and poking around the box's inner bits and circuits. “Is that a _good_ aha, or a _bad_ aha?”

“Middling good,” he grunted in reply, and there was a tiny “pop” from within the box, and then a warbling chime. The buttons all flashed in a rapid sequence, which G'raha watched with sharp attention. Then, he blew out his breath and closed the device back up. “All right.”

He turned to survey the yard, and shot her one more reproving glance. “You and I will be having a talk later,” he murmured, before he lifted his hands and began to mutter under his breath.

And just like that, with a simple motion as if beckoning to them all, every one of the released minions stopped what they were doing and obediently crowded around him.

With another mutter, he opened the lid of the box, and set it down; one by one the minions seemed to step towards the box, and then shimmered and vanished. In under a minute, the yard was empty of mischief-making mammets and rambunctious pets. G'raha knelt and picked the box up again.

“For future reference,” he murmured as he handed it back to Berylla, “the name of the command is 'Muster.' Though I do hope you don't decide to alter the programming again.”

The children made a minor fuss, choruses of disappointment – but it was half-hearted protest at best. Alphinaud came into the yard, then, and looked over all of them, fussing quietly over bruises and scrapes that were no different – to Berylla's mind – than the sorts of injuries any kid picks up during a day of playing. The kids, from their expressions, seemed to feel the same.

But they were good kids, and well used to the annoying ways of concerned adults. They held still for him and didn't whine. When he was done with them, each child came over and gave Berylla a careful and quiet thank-you.

She was still red-faced, but managed to at least acknowledge them and pat their shoulders, which seemed enough to satisfy them. When the caretakers stepped out to call them all to their meal, they gathered together and filed out without a murmur.

Alisaie leaned on the gate and grinned at her friend. “Ready to go, oh master of mammets?”

Berylla growled under her breath, and G'raha laughed.

“Yeah, I'm ready to get back,” the warrior answered.

As the four friends strolled together, leaving the Nest behind them, Alphinaud asked her, “What on _earth_ possessed you to do such a thing?”

“I just...” Berylla sighed and rubbed at her face. “I just wanted to let them have some fun. Something they'd remember, you know?”

“Oh, they'll remember it all right,” Alisaie snickered. “I know I will.”

Berylla made a strangled noise of mortification.

“Now now,” G'raha murmured. “Perhaps we can leave off _toying_ with our friend.”

“ _Augh!_ ” Berylla's groan was smothered by her own hands as she covered her face.

But their laughter echoed along the street a moment later, as they headed home.


	4. Clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the time of new shoes for the horses of the Azim Steppe, and Buto the blacksmith must test his nephew and apprentice Kepek.  
> It is the time of besting the mountain, and Chambui daughter of Aruktai must prepare for her rite of passage. She will succeed, or she will die.  
> For both of them, the simple process of shoeing Chambui's mare takes on new meaning and weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first! No, getting shoes does not hurt a horse, I promise! It's more like a really heavy duty mani-pedi. Their hooves are their nails, the shoes are meant to help protect the hooves from damage and stress like bearing a rider and going over rough terrain.
> 
> Clinching is the term for the process of nailing in a horseshoe; specifically the step in that process where the farrier cuts off the points of the horseshoe nails (with a tool called a clinch cutter), and then bends the remaining lengths of nail over. This secures the shoe firmly to the hoof and is a vital part of the shoeing process.

“Another beautiful day,” sighed Kepek Goro. He took another deep breath, savoring the sweet cool air of dawn. Summer on the Steppe could be a difficult time for the tribe. The heat beat down man and horse alike; streams became trickles, mere threads of moisture, and the rivers waned, in places almost vanishing. And always, thirst waited like a vulture, ready to kill the foolish traveler who did not respect the power of the sun.

But Kepek loved looking out over the sea of summer-green; loved the way the sun's light delicately blossomed, turning the sky into a garden of soft colors never seen on the earth. He loved the way the winds changed at dawn, the way the stars faded as if pacing patiently down into a pavilion for their day's rest. Soon enough the sun would walk the sky in all his fierce glory, his robes aflame and his gaze scorching the earth, but now...

“Another day for a beating if you do not move your lazy rump and prepare the fire!” Buto Goro glared at Kepek. “Son of my sister, I will not hesitate to give you stripes if you dally any further this morning, no matter what gentle words your mother may murmur.”

Kepek turned and bowed, unfazed by his uncle's words. “As you say, brother of my mother,” he answered, and smiled as he made his way over to the forge fire. Kepek was not easily upset by anyone's remonstrating. A dreamer, a poet, and quite the spoiled darling of his mother, Kepek was also handsome beyond all reasonable expectation. His blue-within-blue eyes, his purple-black scales, and his silver-white hair against his tan skin made for quite a striking picture; so most of the other women of the tribe _also_ doted on him.

Buto snorted, and went back to sharpening his chisels and checking over all of his tools. This was the time of new shoes, and there was much work to be done, for Buto was the master blacksmith of his tribe, and his horse-shoes were the best in all the Steppe – perhaps in all of Othard, though most of those foolish outsiders did not value horses as they ought.

The horse-shoes of the Steppe were meant to cushion the foot, protect the soft frog in the center of the hoof – rocks might hide among the grass, and a foundered horse could mean a dead horse and rider alike if the animal should falter in the midst of a charge. The horses of the Goro were perfection – they deserved no less than perfection for their accouterments. It was Buto's duty, and his pleasure, and his art, to adorn the hooves of those beloved creatures.

And his task, difficult though it be, to train Kepek the dreamer in that art.

The boy was not a bad worker; he was a competent blacksmith, after four years of being Buto's striker. Kepek's nails and spikes were always perfectly straight; his hammer strokes when he worked beside his master rang true and lovely, his rhythms matching just as they ought. He had mastered the heating of metal, the blending of bars of various steel. He was not yet ready for the most delicate work, the making of fine ornamentation for bridles and tack, but Buto saw in him much potential.

What frustrated him, most every day, was Kepek's tendency to wander off in his mind into song and poem. He would hum as he pulled wire, and sing softly to himself as he husbanded their small, hot fire with careful blasts from the bellows and the occasional addition of fuel. Sometimes, he would even chant while striking, and it drove Buto just a touch mad when he did so. It was a distraction, and in their work such distraction could cost a man his life...or worse, his horse.

Today would be the day, Buto decided, setting down his hoof knife and moving on to check his pliers. His hands were rough, knuckles swollen from years of working forge and fire. Most of him was much the same – weathered and beaten and scarred from a life well and truly lived. He was no warrior – but not every heart sang in conflict like a Dotharl's. There was room for the practical among the spectacular, on the wide Steppe. Buto had no regrets, and he knew he had gathered much wisdom in his years.

Today, then, he would test his nephew. If Kepek could restrain his songs and his dreaming, and successfully perform his first shoeing...

Well. Best not to dwell on that. Worry was for those less practical than a son of the Steppe.

“Ho! Master Buto! Blessings shine down upon you!”

“And upon you, Master Aruktai,” Buto answered, giving the other man the bow of equals. Beside Aruktai, a young woman hung back a pace; by her scales and her horns, kin of his. Buto knew her – she was Aruktai's daughter, Chambui. But she did not wear the feather of majority in the braided band about her raven hair, and her eyes were cast demurely down, and so Buto said nothing to her, barely glancing at her, as was proper. One did not speak to, or stare at, an innocent maiden.

“You are come for shoes today, yes?” he asked Aruktai, who beamed at him. The Noykin man was a head shorter than Buto, with white scales to the smith's dark, but both of them were broad with muscle and weathered by their work, and they had been fast friends for many years. Aruktai had brought Buto three mares over the decades, three lovely horse-wives, and they had been queens of their kind, every one. Buto, for his part, had crafted tack and shoes and adornments for the many other horses that passed through the Noykin's capable hands.

Aruktai's art was to speak to the horse, to train and teach trust and guide each horse to the proper soul. Both their tribes believed deeply that their horses were sent to the earth to comfort and befriend specific souls, to be partners on the sea of grass. The people cared for their horses no less than their children, and their horses in turn cared for them, when all was as it should be.

And so he asked his friend the same question he asked him every summer in the time of new shoes. But this year, this time, the question was answered differently.

“For shoes, yes, but this time, old friend, I beg your indulgence to provide them for my daughter's mare.”

“Oh?” Buto's eyes widened a touch before he controlled his expression. “Your daughter has grown much, since last summer.”

Aruktai's daughter Chambui was a bare sixteen summers old. Buto had never heard of a Noykin maiden granted her own horse so young. Such was even more surprising given that Aruktai's wife was not of his tribe, but of the songbird people, the Qalli. Rumors had abounded for the last three summers that the girl had turned mute – a critical lack, in a people who spoke to horses as the Noykin did.

Something must have changed, and changed greatly, over the past year.

Aruktai's smile broadened and he swelled with pride. “She has indeed, she has indeed.”

Kepek came up behind Buto. “Uncle, the fire is hot, the stock heating. Shall I...”

Buto turned his head to frown at the young man, then smothered a curse. Kepek's eyes were fixed on Chambui, in a most unseemly display. Hastily he stepped between his nephew and the two Noykin, facing Kepek with a scowl darkening his brow.

Kepek blinked at him, and, for the first time in all the years Buto had known the boy, blushed. “I – my apologies, uncle, I – she – ”

“Take your eyes elsewhere, and cool your head in the water bucket if you must,” Buto snarled, keeping his voice to a whisper. “Do not so dishonor a guest, ever again!”

“Yes, uncle!” Kepek nearly yelped, and hastened away to the other side of the pounded-dirt area that served as Buto's work space.

When Buto turned back around, Aruktai was tapping his lip with one finger, a gesture of amusement among his own folk. Beside him, his daughter was pink in the cheeks.

“The young stallion wishes to prance?”

Buto felt his own face reddening a little, but refused to rise to his friend's bait. “Forgive my nephew, he was dropped on his head as an infant.”

Aruktai grinned, and – to Buto's astonishment – Chambui glanced up and past the blacksmith, her shell-pink mouth tightening for one instant before she once more donned the mask of demure maiden.

“Well,” Buto cleared his throat, “to the business of the shoes, then.”

Aruktai turned to his daughter. “Chambui, bring your mare here.”

The girl straightened – all semblance of demureness vanished – and she half turned. Her mouth pursed, and then she began to whistle.

No bird of the Steppe could have matched that melodious sound. Buto did not even try to hide his astonished stare. Aruktai tapped his lip again, and grinned, even as the sound of hoof-beats drumming on the ground grew to a quiet thunder.

Buto wondered how many more surprises were in store for him this day, as he gazed on the magnificent creature that cantered up to them, halting neatly in front of Chambui, tail flagged and ears pricked forward with interest.

Steppe horses were, one and all, beautiful. Buto had seen hundreds of horses since his youth, had handled and ridden dozens of them. Every one had been a treasure and a delight, even when he only interacted with them for the space of time it took to give them shoes.

Like sunlight poured into the most perfectly formed mare, her coat glowed with health; her mane and tail were the color of white-hot steel, the steel that the masters of swords folded and folded and folded to make the strongest of blades. Her crest sang of elegance; the lines of her were a poem. Buto had never seen a mare to match her or even approach her in loveliness.

What feat had Chambui accomplished, to earn a goddess among mares such as _this?_

Chambui put her hand up to the mare – who stood a good four hands taller and the shoulder than the petite girl – and hummed. The mare whickered, and set her nose against the girl's palm. Then, calmly as if she encountered the strange smells and sounds of a smith's forge every day, she paced lightly into the center of his work space, then pivoted neatly until she could fix him with one eye.

Buto found that he had been holding his breath. Aruktai chortled as the smith coughed a little to cover his breathless fascination. “Her name,” the Noykin trainer said, “is Ushas.”

Kepek was lurking near the “back” part of the work-space, a natural sort of wall formed by the boxes and by the stones that protected the forge-fire. He did his best to hide the fact, but he could not tear his eyes from the pale beauty. Chambui. He knew her – of course he knew her, their families were as close as it was possible for two families from differing tribes to be. He was four years her senior, but his heart felt that she had always been in his life, coming and going with the seasons. A sweet girl, and shy – she had always been quiet in their play, rarely giggling even in the merriest moments. He had been her protector, on occasion, especially when outsiders came to the _iloh_ , the semi-permanent camps their two tribes shared through the long, hot summers. They had played beside each other, always with their mothers close by, until the year Kepek had begun training with his uncle Buto.

Kepek loved learning the ways of the fire and the metal, the rhythms of hammer and bellows. There was music in it, just as there was poetry in the sunrise. He could feel it, and it gave him joy when he mastered each task, each skill, each melody in the greater whole.

He knew Buto did not understand. No one of his family, of his tribe, understood. They had never needed to understand; Kepek did as he was told, broke no law of the tribe, and claimed no special attention for himself.

In a year, he would be reckoned old enough for his first horse-wife. He found that he did not look forward to it. He adored the horses – it would have been madness not to love them, so central were they to his tribe and their survival. They were transport and partners and, when need was great enough, they would give their blood and their very lives to sustain the Goro. It was why they were worshiped so, after all: all that the horse was, was all that the Goro were.

Two years ago, the women of his own tribe – and sometimes other women, outsiders and Xaela alike – had begun to eye him, and sometimes to sidle up to him, and whisper to him. He had been polite, but had refused all offers. He did not feel any stirring in his body for them. He had wondered, over this past winter, if perhaps he ought to take himself to the Buduga – if perhaps he was meant to be a lover of men. Why else was he so unmoved by the charms of so many women?

But seeing Chambui, he knew at last why he had been as a stone.

When last he had seen her, she had been miserable, molting out-of-season, sick with a fever that seemed determined to linger all summer. They had barely spoken.

Now...she was magnificent. Her scales gleamed like pearls. Her hair was sleek and glossier than a pampered mare's mane...and her eyes...

She looked up, and he froze as he felt her eyes meet his. Those eyes struck him to his very soul, gleaming blue-violet within a ring of gold. His body sang with sudden desire and his heart leaped in his chest.

She looked away, and he felt as if a winter wind had wrapped around him, dousing the fire in his belly with the chill of disappointment.

He wanted to break all tradition and manners and go to her, speak to her, take her hands in his and beg her to accept him – but here was Uncle Buto, wearing a frown of concern.

Kepek hastily returned to checking the fire, and slowly pumping the bellows.

“Nephew.”

“Yes, uncle?” Kepek dared not meet his uncle's eyes. He felt certain the older man would know his thoughts, and would not approve.

“You will shape the shoes,” Buto told him. Kepek nodded. He had done the task before, to the satisfaction of the horse and his uncle both.

“Then you will fit the shoes. You have trimmed before, and you have assisted, but today you will nail and clinch and finish the job. Do you understand?”

Kepek raised his eyes to stare at his uncle. A fluttering excitement shivered through his belly. This could only mean that Buto was testing him – that his apprenticeship might be complete.

Might be. For in order to earn the honor of becoming a journeyman, he had to do this job to the proper standard.

He glanced at the mare in the center of the space, catching a glimpse of beautiful Chambui as well.

He had to do this perfectly.

Kepek swallowed hard, and nodded. “I understand, uncle.”

“Then let us get to work.”

The two smiths moved about, measuring and assessing. The first thing Kepek noticed was that the mare's hooves were somewhat overgrown, and it was plain she had never been shod before. Not only that, but her hooves had a particular shape, one not often seen, the sort of shape that demanded a very carefully fitted shoe. He could not cold shoe her; he would have to form the shoes hot, hammer and measure and hammer again, until each foot was protected.

He straightened and met his uncle's eyes. They did not need to talk; Buto nodded twice, telling Kepek that he too had seen what must be done. The two of them moved over to the forge.

“It will be some while,” her father told her, and Chambui nodded, silently, then glanced up at him, her expression questioning. “Yes,” he smiled, “you may send her to the grass for now.”

Chambui whistled to Ushas, and the mare turned, and paced to her, then past her. Smoothly Chambui walked beside the mare. Placing a hand on that silken shoulder was all that was needed to guide the golden mare to a patch of lush grass. Ushas needed no encouragement, she bent her head at once and began to eat, making a little whuffle of contentment.

For a moment Chambui simply stood beside her, stroking the white mane and humming softly, a little tune that spoke of calm waiting. Ushas flicked her ears at the song, and Chambui read in the way those ears moved that the mare understood her. She would stay, not wandering from this spot, until called.

With a final pat, Chambui walked back to her father.

Aruktai stood patient as a statue, arms folded, feet set; a posture she had seen many times before as he waited out a horse's nervousness, or kept watch over the herd in spring. The Noykin trained, and sometimes bred, and generally kept track of every horse on the Steppe; her father was the best of an already exceptional group of horse-talkers, and he was respected from one side of the plains to the other. And she...

She tried to copy his stance, feeling a touch awkward. She knew he was pleased with her progress. Her final trial was yet to come, but Ushas had to have shoes first before she could complete it, for the Noykin tested their horses and their children at one and the same time, in a race like no other.

She ought to be reviewing in her mind the possible paths, the precautions to be taken; or making some simple plan for evading or foiling the other riders who would be competing with her. Every year at least one pair – horse and rider – died attempting to best the mountain. Every year, a handful were injured, and had to wait and try again another time, or accept the lower status of a merely competent handler of horses.

But the ones who succeeded – the very best, bravest, strongest riders in all the Steppe – would earn their feather. Most of them would stay, of course, and enjoy their prestige, and ride with the tribe as always. Her people were content with their ways and their lot in life, and they protected their own. They recognized that some souls needed to leave the herd, needed to see other lands. They would not, however, allow the helpless or the ill-prepared to do so. Only if she earned that so-important feather could she truly be free.

Her mother had traveled, once, beyond the Steppe, beyond the sea, beyond everything – to a place she called Eorzea, a place of adventurers and strange creatures and unlikely peoples. Ever since she was a little girl, Chambui had longed to go there, to see the things her mother had seen. Her mother had called her a winged horse, and told her she must learn to run before she could take wing and fly.

She had accompanied her father here in order to oversee the process of Ushas' shoeing. She did not, strictly speaking, need to be here. But...there was another reason that she had begged her father to bring her.

She watched Kepek as he worked, hammering the hot iron into the shapes he needed, while his uncle held the shoes in the tongs and muttered to him. They worked well together, but her gaze admired Kepek's shoulders more than the arc of his hammer. Sweat was running down his bare chest as the sun grew stronger, and her mouth watered strangely.

Older than she, and by now surely he was picking out his first horse-bride, as was the custom among the Goro. He probably had more offers than he could count on both hands. She was a fool for coming here, but she could not help herself. She feasted on him with her gaze, drank in the sight and the sound of him. He was beautiful, dark scales flashing in the sun, white hair damp with the sweat of his exertions, muscles coiling and shifting...beautiful as a stallion in spring, and she recognized the stirring in her heart. The same pull that drew the mare to the stallion.

But he surely had no interest in her. He was Goro, and they bred with each other, but they did not marry. That honor was reserved for their horses, a form of worship one step beyond what her own people practiced. Some of the other tribes made fun of them for it, and told crude and lascivious jokes. She had heard them, in Reunion, when autumn came and it was time to take the culls of their herds and offer them up to foolish outsiders who would value them as mere animals. It hurt her sometimes to see them go, but reality was harsh, and coin was necessary for the Noykin to survive.

She wondered how she might earn coin, out in the wider world. Perhaps she could become an adventurer, as her mother had been. She had learned the ways of the bow, and the ways of the dagger. She knew the secret songs her mother had hoarded, the melodies of power that sustained, the voice of venom that made her arrows bite deeper. Or perhaps she might find work as a trainer of horses. She was certain no outsider could match her skills there. They might even call it magic, though it was nothing of the sort, merely being able to listen to the horses as they spoke. Paying attention, and exercising patience, and befriending the horse, not forcing it to act, not breaking its spirit. Outsiders knew nothing of such things.

Kepek knew. To have him beside her as she wandered...

No. Sweet as that dream was, it was merely a dream. He could not possibly want to ask her father for her hand – and she did not yet have to right to ask him for herself.

The shoes were formed, and Kepek kept them hot – but not too hot – as Chambui brought Ushas back. The maiden stood beside the mare and watched with a keen gaze as Kepek pressed each hoof to a shoe with meticulous care and precise timing – not too long, so as not to harm the hoof, but with enough force to mark the cherry red iron.

Ushas blew into his hair as he finished with her left hind foot, and Kepek smiled as he stroked her neck with gentle fingers. Chambui wondered how those fingers would feel, stroking her own skin. Then she mentally shook herself, and looked away.

Kepek wished that Chambui would look at him. Now that he was working in this way, it was acceptable for them to exchange a word or two, at least. But her eyes were on anything but him, even when he tried to get her attention, and he bit back his frustration and kept to his work.

He focused as he never had before, leaving himself no room for music or humming, clipping precise places and hammering smooth, before finally quenching the hot shoes in the water bucket.

The hiss of steam made Ushas whicker a little with mild surprise, and Kepek heard Chambui humming to the mare. The sound of her voice sent tingles all along his spine and he was very glad he did not have anything in his hands.

He gathered up the things he would need – the special bit of wood that would let the leg rest while he filed down the hoof; the rasps and the clinchers and the hammers and of course, the nails. He had forged these horseshoe nails himself, and he knew them to be flawless. As he laid out everything with more precision than his uncle would have done, he caught a small, approving smile from Buto. A small puff of relief escaped him. So far, he was doing well.

He donned the thick leather apron and took the shoes out of the water bucket. With a rough bit of cloth he dried them, and held them up in the sunlight to inspect them minutely. There were no signs of cracking in the iron, no warping, no blemishes. Good. It was time.

Chambui set her hand on the mare's shoulder as Kepek lifted the first hoof and began the job of nailing in the shoe, just at the white line. His hammer strokes were strong, precise, driving each nail in with the fewest strokes necessary while not using so much force that he risked hurting Ushas.

The mare blew, and nodded her head, her eye rolling. This was a new thing, a strange sensation, and she was not sure she liked it. Chambui soothed her with hand and voice, crooning reassurance. The mare's skin shivered, but she stood.

The nails were in, and Kepek trimmed the points off and clinched them, bending their ends over to secure the shoe. Then he took up the rasp, and smoothed the edge and the ends of the nails. No wayward vine or bit of grass would catch on them, now.

When he set her foot down, Ushas sighed, and blew against the back of his shirt. Kepek chuckled, and moved to the rear foot on the same side.

Ushas snorted as her foot was lifted, and her tail swished. But she did not kick or shift, and Chambui made certain to praise her, adding the trills that told the mare what a treasure she was.

Kepek heard Chambui singing, and it was all he could do to concentrate and not join his voice to hers. He caught sight of Buto, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn together. He dared not make a noise, much less hum.

The process of shoeing took time, and no little endurance. Ushas stood calm, but Kepek could feel the strain in his back and legs as he finally set down her hoof, the last one, and straightened.

“Move aside,” Buto commanded him, and Kepek backed away.

The older smith bent and examined each foot minutely, grunting as he did so.

Then he stood and looked to Chambui. “Try the paces,” he told the girl.

Chambui nodded. Her eyes slid to Kepek for one moment, but then she pulled her gaze away again, and set Ushas to walking in a slow circle around the space.

Kepek focused his gaze on the mare's feet instead of on the maiden leading her. But he could see no issues with the shoes, no flaws, no hesitation in the mare's steps after the first few strides. Ushas adjusted to the weight and sensation of having bits of iron more or less bolted onto her feet with little more than a few equine grumbles of complaint, but no sign of true discomfort.

Aruktai was smiling openly, and Kepek's heart leaped to see Chambui cast him a small smile, while the mare was between Chambui and Buto.

His uncle looked stern and thoughtful for a long time after Chambui brought Ushas to a stop.

Then, he nodded. “Yes,” he said, and turned to Aruktai. “Now, to the matter of payment...”

Aruktai was speaking with Buto, as they haggled in a friendly way over the cost of the shoes. Kepek put away the tools and tried not to look over at Chambui too much.

When he heard her clear her throat from just behind him, he nearly yelped in surprise.

He turned to face her, and his mouth went dry at the sight of her smile.

“Thank you,” she said to him – no, she wasn't speaking, she was singing her words, just as her mother did. His heart raced once more.

“Y-you are more than welcome,” he managed. “I...was happy to...” He floundered. He felt like he couldn't get a breath, and his mind refused to give him words.

“Have you chosen a mare for your bride yet?” she inquired, her words less musical, now, but still with a hypnotizing cadence that nearly made him miss what she actually said.

“Have I – no,” he swallowed, “No, I haven't. There is no...I mean, I haven't found...damn it.”

Her eyes widened at his curse, and he felt his face burning.

“I – I'm sorry,” he stammered, “I just...am nervous.”

“Your uncle is most fearsome today,” she nodded. “But I do not think he is disappointed in you.”

“I hope not,” Kepek breathed, his eyes fixed on hers. He wanted to reach out to her, but he knew he could not. Even easy going Aruktai would not stand for that.

“The trial of the mountain is in two days,” she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, as if she did not intend the older men to hear her. “If I return...if I earn my feather...”

“You surely will,” he blurted. “I believe you can do it, Chambui.”

Saying her name made him nearly faint. But the look in her eyes seared his soul. He ventured one more sentence, hearing his uncle beginning to draw the haggling to a close.

“Will you come and show me?” he asked her softly. “Show me the feather in your hair, and tell me of your plans?”

He did not imagine the little gasp she made, or the look she gave him. “Oh...! I – yes. Y-yes of course I will!” She bit her lip, edging back a step. “In...in three days!”

“In three days,” he nodded, and watched her retreat, to stand beside Ushas and lead her mare away, with her father at her side.

Buto strode up to him. “You were slow,” he said. “You took five times as long with that as I would have done.”

Kepek gulped, and looked at his feet, waiting.

“You fussed over the trimming too much, and the mare was growing weary of your fumbling by the time you were through. With mares as with women: do not keep them waiting over-long, boy.”

“Yes, uncle,” Kepek murmured, feeling a blush washing across his face and the back of his neck.

Buto's voice softened. “And never have I seen a more precise fit. You were patient, you took the time you felt you needed, and you made not a single mistake.”

Kepek's head came up and he stared at his uncle, uncertain and yet with growing hope and elation.

Buto reached out and took his arm, in the clasp of warriors – of _respect_. “Welcome, Kepek Journeyman,” he said with a smile. “May your hammer ever ring true.”

Chambui felt as if she floated home, rather than walking. He had looked her, at the last. Spoken to her – shown interest in her! “I believe you can do it,” he had told her. Her heart felt like a flying eagle. Perhaps her hopes were not in vain; perhaps he would consent to come with her...!

“Daughter,” Aruktai said mildly, “your steps wander from our path.”

She stopped in her tracks, earning a curious flick of the ear from Ushas. She gulped, and warily looked over at her father.

He was half smiling, but his eyes were watchful, the way they were when he observed a yearling. “Do you have aught you wish to tell me, my sunrise?”

Her mother would understand her hopes. Her father...he cared for her, but he wouldn't comprehend why she would ever want to leave the Steppe.

So she did not tell him what she wanted to tell him. She told him what he would hear.

“I...I fear I must beg your forgiveness, Father.” She ducked her head. “But I – found much to admire, in Kepek, today.”

“Hm, yes,” and she saw from beneath her lashes that her father tapped his lip. “The young stallion caught your eye, then.”

“I know he is not for me,” she began, but to her shock, her father laughed aloud.

“Believe me, daughter, if you stretch out your hand for him, he will be yours.”

“Oh, I...” She blushed and shook her head. “His family would surely protest.”

“Well, and that may be, or may not be.” Aruktai reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “But that is neither here nor there. My only words to you for now are thus: first you must best the mountain and earn your feather. Concentrate on that, my sunrise.”

“Of course, father. I will make you proud of me.”

His eyes softened and he tugged her close for a brief hug. “Oh my daughter,” he murmured, “You already have.”

Night. Kepek had diligently worked and cleaned and now, the forge-fire was banked with care, ready for the dawn. Buto was in his tent by now, perhaps with a lady visitor. Kepek remained in the clearing, avoiding the rest of the tribe. Lately some of the women had taken to attempting to – well, ambush him. He did not welcome their advances, and had no wish to argue with them. Not tonight. He had a lot to think about.

The Goro did not marry. Their horses were their loves and their lives. He had always known that, even though by necessity he was somewhat distanced from interacting with the herds because of his apprenticeship. Too, he had not spent much time around the girls his own age – all those who had sought him out were older than he by at least a hand's count of years. But he realized now, as he had not before, that he had never wanted any of them in the first place. He did not dislike them, but he simply...did not care. Likewise no mare had caught his eye in the manner all the men spoke about so often. Even Ushas – goddess of the dawn indeed – while undeniably beautiful, had not moved his heart the way Chambui had done.

Chambui, who was not of the Goro.

Chambui, who promised to return to him in three days.

Chambui, who might die.

Kepek found a good patch of grass, soft and fragrant, and lay down. Summer meant that one did not need to sleep inside a tent, necessarily; he had slept out here before and his family would not worry. He was free to stare up at the scattered stars and think.

Besting the mountain. That was what the Noykin called their rite of passage. Kepek knew not the details – no one outside the tribe did – but he knew the outcomes. Failure that ended in shame, failure that ended in death, or success – which brought the feather of adult status, of independence.

His heart twisted, imagining Chambui dashed to pieces on the rocks. For surely she would not settle for mere survival. No, she would put all she had into the race, she would succeed or she would die. He did not need to ask her, to know. She had always been thus, even as a tiny child. All or nothing.

He pushed the worry aside, and instead thought about her voice. Her had never believed the rumors of her lost voice – she had ever been quiet, and it seemed obvious to him that she had chosen to learn the ways of her mother's people. For the Qalli, every word was a song, and every heart held its own music; they were story-tellers and keepers of memory, sometime wanderers even into the outside world. Had Chambui turned her heart to more than simply the songs of her mother?

His heart thumped in his chest as he considered it. A wild notion – Chambui had never so much as breathed a word to him, when they were younger, about exploring the wider world. She had seemed well content with life as it was, with the prospects before her as her father's daughter: the life of a horse trainer, and likely the suit of any young man who wished to gain her father's favor. She would never want for love or affection, and she would know the same freedom she had always known, the long slow patterns of Steppe life, the certainties and the beauties held within the green vastness of their little world.

For her to earn her feather would mean honor piled atop privilege, and the right to choose her own husband. He dared to hope that she wished to reach out for him in that way, now, as he had not hoped before. Only if she came to him could he become hers; she would have to steal him from the Goro. And oh, he wished she would.

He had always cared for her, he understood that now. He had loved her all this time, silent in the face of expectations from his family, his tribe. To pursue her, to court her rather than wait in hope of her attention, would be to abandon his people.

And yet...what if?

What if Chambui were not, in fact, content? What if she sought her feather to gain a greater freedom, not to gain an even higher status than she already held? What if she yearned for paths that led outside the Steppe, yearned for the company of outsiders and strangers?

What if she yet wanted him with her even then?

His mind danced among the possibilities, chasing fantasy into dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all.
> 
> This one may end up being its own full fledged fic later. It did NOT want to stop. I have so much more in my head about these two young Xaela, and this rite of passage I've invented, and it's ridiculous. In the best way! All this, NOT for want of a horseshoe nail.


	5. The Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird is a young and idealistic adventurer. Turns out her ideals clash a bit with those of the Scions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "Matter of Fact"

“The Maelstrom has requested that the Scions slay the primal Titan, who has been summoned by a tribe of kobolds who reside near Limsa Lominsa. Report to High Storm Commander R'ashaht Rhiki at Maelstrom Command for further information.”

Such was the meat of the message the Antecedent of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn read out to them all. Nightbird watched as the others simply listened and nodded, questioning nothing they were told. She contained her astonishment and growing unease, and kept silent and still in the back of the group, until at last Minfilia dismissed everyone, saying, “Provision yourself for the journey. May you walk in the light of the Crystal.”

Nightbird lingered in the solar as everyone else made their way out to deal with their various tasks. The Antecedent cocked her head, but the dark Miqote did not speak until the doors had firmly shut.

“I wished to ask a question of you, Antecedent. Being that this question would cause, shall we say, consternation among the others, I judged it better to wait until we were alone.”

“And what thorny question might be troubling you?”

“Why are the Scions focusing all their effort on killing primals, and not on removing the reasons such beings are summoned?”

Minfilia's eyes narrowed at the tension in Nightbird's voice.

“Pray explain further,” she answered. “For it seems to me that we are not able to remove widespread suffering with our limited numbers and resources. To offer aid and succor to the beast tribes on such a scale is well beyond even the Sultana's coffers.”

“I don't mean _feeding_ them.” Nightbird crossed her arms. “I mean mediating new treaties and then enforcing them. I mean not allowing the city-states to swindle the beast-men; I mean putting a stop to the lies and the exploitation. They would not summon their little gods, would they, if they did not feel desperately unhappy? We encroach on their lands, we ignore their autonomy, we deny them rights and dignity alike. Would _you_ not also wish to eliminate the source of such woes? Oh wait – yes, you would, because the entire Alliance has fought against being treated _exactly this way_ by the Garlean Empire.”

Her tone grew sharper with every word, gaining in intensity rather than volume. Minfilia stood, one hand on her hip, and showed no reaction to the passion in Nightbird's voice.

She waited a breath, to be certain that the other woman was finished speaking, before replying.

“The Scions are not aligned with any one member of the Alliance,” she began. “Our order did not, in fact, even originate on these shores. We were Sharlayan, once, before Master Louisoix brought us to Eorzea to save what lives we could. Our oath emphasizes that we take a stand against primals, and against Ascians. No more and no less. We have not, and do not, meddle in politics.” She shifted her weight slightly. “And as I already said, our resources are finite, our numbers few. We must work within our limits.”

Nightbird shook her head. “Yet, would it not be a far more efficient use of those limited resources to negotiate for a lasting peace? Do you not have connections with the best diplomats in the world? Surely using such talents would be a wiser way to pursue peace!”

“Wiser heads than yours have attempted the feat, young lady.” The Antecedent gave her a stern look, now, and dropped her arms to her sides. “And every such negotiation has failed – or at best has afforded mere weeks of peace before the treaties are violated, and hostilities resume.”

“Because the Alliance breaks the treaties!” Nightbird nearly shouted.

“Kindly calm yourself,” Minfilia snapped. “Do not repeat errant rumor and biased hearsay to _me_ , Miss Kevala. I do not suffer such foolishness.”

“Hearsay? Rumor?” Nightbird hissed. “And if I brought you _documented evidence_ of the many transgressions that the Alliance has perpetrated, what then?”

“ _If_ such evidence exists,” Minfilia's frown showed how doubtful she was about _that_ , “it would not be a matter for the Scions in any event. We are not a regulatory body over any member of the Alliance, Nightbird. We are but servants to the greater good – ”

“Bullshit.”

Minfilia's eyes went wide and her cheeks reddened at the vulgar curse that burst from the dark Miqote. But before she could remonstrate, Nightbird turned her shoulder to the Antecedent.

“You are at the very least the _equals_ of the city-states of Eorzea,” she told Minfilia. “To deny such is nothing but a self-soothing lie, a sop to your conscience, to say “there is nothing we can do.” But you _could_ do more. You choose otherwise.”

“We must pick our battles, and your attitude is not one that serves any constructive end. You have good points, Nightbird, but your ideas as to solutions are simply unrealistic and untenable. You speak of evidence? I can present much evidence to you, of the times we have _tried_ to negotiate with the beast tribes. They have no interest in taking our hands in friendship.”

Nightbird's lip curled. “I wonder about that,” she answered. “And I wonder, if I were to hunt through the Scions' own history, how much of your livelihood comes from doing these favors for the Grand Companies.”

The Antecedent stiffened in outrage. “Such an accusation is uncalled for and untrue,” she snapped. “Retract it at once.”

“I see.” Nightbird turned her back to Minfilia, and her voice shook with anger. “The Scions do not intend to put themselves out of work.”

She strode to the door of the solar. “I will see myself out. Do not expect me to return.”


	6. Faire Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of silliness that I'd sort of intended to post for a summer thing?  
> LOTS of 5.3 spoilers lurking in here, and a heck of a lot of speculation!
> 
> Also, this is my "aged up" take on the twins, they are both 20 at this time, because I say so  
> If any smooching of those two squicks you, don't read!

“Well, you look pleased with yourself.”

“Yep. I've had a great idea, and you're all going to join me.”

Y'Shtola crossed her arms. “Are we, now?”

Berylla lifted her chin. “Yep.” Then she grinned. “After all, I've paid for everything in advance, and we all deserve a couple days of fun.”

“Fun?” Alisaie's eyebrows went up.

“Yeah, that thing you never have,” Berylla teased.

The Elezen stuck her tongue out at the Roe, then both of them laughed a little.

“Just what mischief are you planning, Berylla?” Alphinaud asked.

“Fireworks!” she answered, with a wild gesture of her arms. “Dancing! And best of all – food!”

“The Moonfire Faire, then, is it?” Y'Shtola narrowed her eyes, then suddenly grinned. “A fine notion. It would be pleasant to enjoy some warmth and uncomplicated entertainment.”

“The big fireworks show is tonight, and there will be feasting on the island, too,” Berylla enthused. “And tomorrow they're going to have the dancing demonstration, the big one. So, I made arrangements.” She looked smug.

“Ah...” Alphinaud took a half step away from the group. “I, ah, I have some research to which I must attend...”

“Oh, no you don't,” Berylla's arm snaked out and she grabbed him by his sleeve. “You're coming with. I'm not taking no for an answer.”

He frowned at her, but her grin didn't waver for an instant.

Y'Shtola said, “I shall go and collect Urianger and Thancred, yes?”

“That would be great,” Berylla agreed. “Shall we meet in the square first, or just all head straight to Costa when we've packed?”

“Oh, I think it should be sufficient to meet at the beach,” Y'Shtola said with a wave of her hand.

Alphinaud seemed to perk up a moment, then wilted almost instantly as Berylla said, “Great, I asked Tataru to pack up some things for us all, so we can get there sooner. She knows our sizes so it wasn't even much of a challenge for her.”

Y'Shtola laughed aloud. “You seem to have thought of everything! I will see you all anon.”

She strode out, leaving Berylla standing there with the twins, still holding Alphinaud's sleeve.

He tugged himself free. “I do not think this is a very wise idea,” he muttered.

“I'm sure Tataru included some flotation aids for you,” Alisaie offered, too sweetly. Her brother glared at her.

“No,” Berylla said, “but I did make sure to hire a boat for us all. You won't have to do more than wade if you don't want to, Alphinaud. Come on, do you really think I'd do that to you?”

“I would,” Alisaie chimed in.

“I know,” both Berylla and Alphinaud answered, and then the three of them blinked at each other for a second before bursting into laughter.

“Oh, very well, since you are so insistent,” Alphinaud sighed.

Berylla gave him a one armed hug; when Alisaie sidled up, the big Roe lifted her other arm too. Both of them were nearly as tall as the warrior, now; almost done growing into their full height.

“It's just a beach party,” Berylla said. “Nothing to worry about, all right?”

The beach was crowded, noisy, vibrant – in short, the very picture of a fabulous party. Off to one side of the island, an area that boasted more rocks than sand had been set up to hold several very large pavilion style tents, and the Scions had taken over one of them. Berylla had changed into her swimsuit with great alacrity – only Alisaie had been faster – and the two of them loitered in the shade of the awning, looking out over the crowd.

Alisaie's suit was a two-piece affair, with a halter top and what looked like a skirt, but was not. Berylla wasn't sure how that worked, but she was comfortable enough in her simple turquoise blue one-piece.

Children babbled and somewhere out there a trio of bards were playing some lively music. The scent of grilling meat wafted through the air. Across the island from the tents, a whole row of little booths had been put up, offering little silly games, and food, and drinks.

“I'm getting one of those,” Alisaie pointed to a man who was carrying a very tall glass full of something very cold, by the condensation on the glass. The drink was as red as the swimsuit she wore.

“I want one of the white ones,” Berylla answered.

“Because they have parasols in them?” Alisaie teased.

“Ha, no, pineapple and coconut,” Berylla replied easily. “I know you don't care for those too much though. You can keep your strawberry stuff.”

“Strawberry what?” Tataru asked as she stepped out of the tent, carrying her hat as she adjusted the strap of her pink halter top. Her suit was similar to Alisaie's, except it had ruffles in a few places.

“Alisaie wants a daiquiri.” Berylla grinned down at the receptionist. “You look adorable, Tataru.”

“Of course I do!” the Lalafellin woman grinned, and put on her straw hat. “Thank you.”

“I do not know why _all_ of us needed to be included for this outing,” a voice grumbled. The three women turned slightly as Thancred came out, with a green pareo cinched snugly around his waist and a straw hat on his head.

“Because even you could use a little fun, oh grizzled veteran.” Berylla patted his shoulder. “Besides, think of all the lovely women you'll get to flirt with.”

He gave her a sour look, but then a truly stunning young lady sauntered past them all, and his eyes followed her. Berylla grinned. “See?”

“Tch.” He rolled his eyes at her even as he stepped out into the sunlight. “You're going to be insufferable all day, aren't you?”

“She hath perchance earned the right to gloat,” Urianger said quietly, as he walked out of the tent and straight into the sun. He tilted his face up. “A singularly lovely day, I confess.”

Several women were frankly staring at the Elezen astrologian – not much of a surprise. He still wore much of his golden jewelry and it caught the sun; between that, his height, and the brilliantly blue pareo slung a bit low on his lean hips, he made a striking sight.

Berylla eyed him as well. “Are you...are you _naked_ under that thing?”

Urianger's golden eyes were half closed; he looked pleased as a cat in cream. But he didn't answer, simply sauntered away, drawing more appreciative glances as he went. Thancred walked after him.

Berylla looked back at the other two women; Alisaie had her hand over her mouth, but her eyes were laughing merrily.

Tataru was pink in the cheeks, and stammered, “I'll just go, um, check on Y'Shtola. Be right back!”

It had been at least five minutes since Tataru had vanished back into the pavilion, but Berylla lingered.

Y'Shtola came out, with Tataru right beside her. The Miqote wore a bikini the color of a robin's egg, and had a filmy white cloth tied around her waist. She glanced at the tall Roe. “The others?”

“By now, Thancred is probably chatting up at least three girls,” Berylla smiled. “Alisaie went off towards the vendors, or maybe the games.”

“And you?”

“I've a mind to go get my feet wet first.” Then Berylla winked. “Once I've made sure Alphinaud's not going to hide in the tent all afternoon.”

Y'Shtola chuckled, and slipped on a pair of dark glasses. “Well then. I believe I shall go and explore a bit.”

Tataru nodded. “I'll join you.” She waved to Berylla as the two walked off, in the opposite direction of everyone else thus far.

Berylla waited a moment more, then ducked back into the tent.

“Alphinaud?”

“I heard you. I am not _hiding_.” His voice was a little muffled, as he was still in one of the partitioned-off “rooms” they had all used for changing.

Berylla folded her arms. “Darlin', if you're really that unhappy being here...”

He was silent for a moment, and she heard cloth rustling. “I prefer quieter ways of relaxing, Berylla. You know that.”

“I do, but I was hoping...” She trailed off as he came out into the main space of the pavilion, and just regarded him for a long moment.

“What?”

He wore loose, knee length, blue swim shorts, and a white canvas jacket with blue trim. But Berylla's eyes were fixed on the brown leather satchel hanging from his shoulder.

“You brought books? To a _beach_ party?”

“It's only my sketching things.” He swiped his bangs away from his eyes for a moment. “I don't plan to be close to the water, at least not while the sun is still in the sky.”

Berylla shrugged and turned toward the exit. “Suit yourself.”

She headed out into the sun, and Alphinaud followed slowly. By the time he was surveying the boisterous crowd, the redheaded warrior was halfway to the big, circular wooden hut that housed the bar.

Alisaie smirked as she collected her prize from the slightly disgruntled fellow running the darts booth. The stuffed toy – a rather comical looking blue shark – was big enough to serve as a pillow, and when she was turned away from the booth, she grinned with delight.

“Been busy already, have you? Do you need to go put that thing down or can you carry it and this drink?”

She blinked at Berylla, not having realized the warrior had been standing behind her. Then her eyes fell on the tall glasses in the Roe's hands. “I can most certainly carry my own drink. Thank you, Berylla – you didn't have to – ”

“Eh,” Berylla handed over the strawberry daiquiri and took a largish swallow of her own concoction before tugging the wedge of pineapple off the rim and devouring it. “I wasn't busy or anything.”

Alisaie sipped of her drink, and eyed her friend. “Where's Alphinaud?”

Berylla's mouth turned down for a moment, then she shrugged. “Probably looking for a spot to sit. He wants to draw.” Her attempt at nonchalance was not terribly convincing, at least not to Alisaie. She had known Berylla too long, was too close with her; the tall warrior was troubled.

“You expected him to do otherwise?”

Berylla took another swallow of her drink. “I don't know what I expected.”

Alisaie's eyes crinkled a little. “Were you hoping to hold hands and stroll around the party?”

Berylla's cheeks went pink and she buried her nose in her drink for a moment.

Well then. Alisaie mentally shrugged. If her brother was going to let such an opportunity slip away, she surely would not.

“Come on,” she said to the tall Roe. “You and I can go about hand in hand.” She grinned, her eyes twinkling with impish mischief. “We'll drive all the men half mad with jealousy.”

Tall as the glasses were, Berylla's drink was already half gone. Her eyes had gone warm and soft, as they did when she was just a little tipsy. “Why the hell not,” she replied.

Alisaie tucked the stuffed toy under her right arm, since with a drink in her right hand she wasn't going to be doing much with that arm anyway. She offered Berylla her left hand, and the warrior tangled their fingers together.

Almost instantly a pair of young men took notice – very obvious notice, not quite cat-calling at the two women. Berylla's mouth curved in a smile as impish as Alisaie's, and she leaned over and planted a slightly cold kiss on the Elezen's cheek.

Then both of them laughed a little, and they started to stroll.

Thancred was not really all that unhappy about being here. Y'Shtola was right, they all needed a brief rest – more than that, a chance to play just a little, to take pleasure in something, to step away from the so-serious work of saving the world. But it felt odd, surrounded by a bevy of beauties, being cooed over and plied with drink and compliments, and pay no few compliments of his own. This was the way his life used to be.

It didn't fit him very well, not anymore.

He subtly discouraged the much-too-young lady who was vying for his attention, breathing a small sigh of relief when she flounced away. Time was, he would not have breathed a word – if the girl was of age, what business was it of his to judge her choices? But most of the lovely ladies who circled him now were a good deal older – no question as to their age nor their experience. The young, and the innocent...he couldn't bring himself even to playfully flirt. They reminded him too much of another young face, another innocent, eager smile...

He blinked as the brunette to his left planted a small kiss on his cheek. “You were far away,” she said, before he could comment. “What could possibly make a man so sad on a day like this one?”

“Just remembering,” he answered, his smile automatic, his tone casual only by reflex. “Old men tend to let memory take them where she will.”

“Perhaps you need distracting, then?”

The promise in her voice did not escape his notice. He eyed her, and considered the offer she was making.

“Perhaps.”

Alisaie and Berylla had wandered back to the pavilion, only long enough to stow the stuffed shark, before taking to the beach and locating a good lounging spot. There were some very nice, flat rocks that were totally dry until the peak of high tide, and they spread a blanket on one such, to lay basking in the sun, watching the crowd ebb and flow.

Berylla finished her drink and set the glass aside, and continued the conversation they had been having, off and on, for several days now. “If he's not avoiding me, Alisaie...what's going on with him?”

“I suspect that he's having the same trouble the rest of us are having. The journey wasn't easy on any of us, Berylla. It may take weeks – months even – before we quite feel ourselves fully. Have patience.”

“Yeah, yeah, patience.” The warrior turned to lie on her stomach, resting her chin on her crossed arms. “I'm _trying_ to be patient, but how much longer does he really need?” She eyed the white haired Elezen woman beside her. “You seem fine.”

“I'm still having the nightmares.” Alisaie's voice was quiet. “Alphinaud had to make up a new batch of tonic for me, something stronger.”

“Oh. Oh, honey.” Berylla leaned up on her elbows. “You – you know you can still come get me if you need to, right?”

“And interrupt your rest?”

“Don't even try it, we talked about _that_ a long time ago. Besides, my room's closer to yours than Alphinaud's is, isn't it?”

Alisaie shook her head. “I'm not as badly off as all that, Berylla. Don't _worry_ about me.”

“It's a habit,” Berylla answered. “For some reason, you're very important to me.”

Alisaie laughed quietly.

Alphinaud settled himself on the tall platform, knees bent and arms settled across them. He had finally found a relatively quiet spot, and he looked out over the crowd, his artist's eye picking out details among the swirl of color and motion. A mother picking up her child, both of them laughing, as the little boy waved a brightly colored pinwheel in one hand. Thancred, leaning against the bar, holding court among a half-dozen eager women. Absently, he noticed the older man sending away a younger girl. He heard a peal of familiar laughter, and saw Tataru, jumping up and down with glee, while Y'Shtola looked on in amusement. It seemed the Lalafellin woman had won some sort of prize – or perhaps a bet, given the look of disgruntlement on the face of the man with them.

Then he saw flame-red hair, and all else faded away. He watched Berylla walking alongside his sister. They were holding hands, and he snorted softly at the sight. He didn't begrudge his sister for taking what she could get in terms of companionship with the woman both of them loved. He could no longer imagine any other state of affairs, holding them both in his heart as he did.

He sighed, and tugged his sketchbook out of his bag. He rearranged his limbs carefully, so that he could lean back against the rough wood and brace the book against his bent legs.

He had taken to marking his sketchbooks now that he had to carry more than one. He would not like for anyone to find the things that lately occupied his mind. No harm done if they glanced at the images in the top book. They would assume the second and third books held more of the same – sketches of faces, little doodles, vignettes of scenes that had caught his attention, occasional studies of hands or body poses. Pleasant. Meaningless.

But the third book was the one he took out now, the one with its corners marked with red.

He did not look through this book as he did with his others. The things he sketched and scrawled here were meant to stay here, trapped on the pages, locked away. Sometimes, they even stayed put and did not return to his dreams.

This time it was tentacles, the many and various slimy appendages that still haunted him from time to time when he thought about that unnerving place beneath a stagnant sea, on another world. Strange creatures, cephalopods with far too many grasping, hungering limbs, with eerie colors glowing and flowing beneath their slick, pulsating skin. Perhaps if they had been safely contained on the other side of some wall of glass, or been nothing but images, his recollections of them would be more pleasant. But they were too entwined with the rest of his discomfort with that place, that situation. Not only being beneath the sea – which for him had been very much walking about in the belly of the beast.

Far more upsetting had been how his beloved had walked beside them, unable to take much of an active role in their efforts. She had been so pale, so quiet. Barely able to fight, not compared to how she had been before that day at Mount Gulg.

He had never in his life been so afraid. Even the terrors of the ocean depths had not tormented his every waking moment the way his fear for her had done.

The tentacled monstrosity on his page leered back at him, a mouth full of unlikely teeth opened wide. He turned the page, and began again, sketching Berylla's face, this time.

The others had only seen the outward changes in her. They did not sleep beside the Warrior of Light and Darkness...

She had been cold to the touch, then; she had never been warm enough. She had slept in her coat most nights, even in her own bed, and yet she never shivered or complained. Her aether had trembled, a constant humming that would sometimes coalesce into a faint chiming sound, a chiming sound that would be echoed by the once again endless Light dominating the sky.

She had wept in her sleep, and the tears had been made of pure Light.

He had sketched her so often that the contours of her face seemed to appear on the paper as if by magic. But the details were different, chilling. A vision of her transformed into the same silent husk as those poor victims who had later turned into sin eaters. Pale hair in place of fiery red; skin white as marble, white as ivory, white as bleached bones in the sun. Irises of purest gold, in eyes gone black as tar where once had been _healthy_ white. Lips that so often curved in humor, in sarcasm, in ferocious enjoyment, now still and pale and hard. The expression of a statue, not the vibrant face of the woman who never did anything by halves, who threw herself at her life the way she threw herself at her enemies...

His sight wavered, and he shut the book and bent his head for a long moment. He reminded himself, again, that she had _not_ succumbed, she had _not_ died, she was very much alive and present and whole. He let the tears flow, knowing that to try to suppress them would only exacerbate them.

He knew, of course, what was happening, and why. Like all the rest of them, save Berylla, he had not made the return to the Source without some scars. And even Berylla bore her share of suffering; the only difference being that her soul had been damaged through other means. They had known there would be lingering effects.

Y'Shtola struggled with occasional bouts of hyperactivity, a strange euphoric state in which she could not sleep, could not be still. Sometimes she could not even be silent, nearly babbling, like a child who'd been fed far too much sugar. She would throw herself into research for hours, literally until she dropped, if no one forced her to rest.

Thancred, on the other hand, could fall asleep in under five minutes, and had days where he struggled to stay awake at all. Urianger would walk in his sleep, sometimes right out of the Waking Sands entire – and once, right off the stone pier and into the bay. Someone had to guard the astrologian in his rest, now, lest he harm himself.

Alisaie had already suffered from night terrors. They had lessened in frequency and strength, after their experiences within the Coils – but on their return to the Source, those terrors had returned with a vengeance. He had been forced to experiment with newer, stronger medicines – he had even had to consult with Krile. Only in the last two weeks had he finally found an effective formula that would not also bring the risk of addiction. Being Alisaie, she had tenaciously kept working, acting as though she did not have dark circles under her eyes from constantly broken sleep. Also being Alisaie, she had bounced back from weeks of suffering so quickly that most of the others barely knew she had struggled at all.

As for himself...nightmares haunted his own rest, though compared to Alisaie's, they were quiet little things, tame as kittens. His need to draw those nightmares was unusual, but at least it wasn't inimical. More disturbing were these bouts of sudden weeping, that sometimes had no trigger at all.

He had always preferred to study alone, but now he was hiding from everyone, and he knew it. His memory was not as accurate as it had been, either – though he could not be sure that was not simply an effect of his constant state of weariness. That in particular bothered him. He had always prided himself on his memory, on being able to read a passage once and recollect it perfectly whenever he chose. He could no longer keep track of every bit of news in the reports his informants brought him.

He knew Berylla wanted him to spend more time with her. Even this trip was, to some extent, an attempt on her part to keep him beside her for more than a few minutes.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He wasn't himself right now. He didn't want her worrying about him, and if she saw – if she knew – no, it simply would not do. This was a temporary condition, surely. All of them were struggling now, but they would recover, they would be all right.

The weeping eased off, and he wiped his eyes and put away his book and his pencils. Looking up, he saw Berylla and Alisaie lying on a blanket, on an outcropping of rock. Berylla was on her belly, and it seemed almost as if she looked right at him, though he knew well she couldn't possibly see him. He nibbled his thumbnail, and then got up, taking his bag. Enough was enough. He would go out there. He would _try_.

Berylla had laid her cheek on her arms, drowsing in the pleasant haze of alcohol and heat. Alisaie was sitting up, stretching a bit and finally finishing her own drink – slightly tepid as it was, it was still deliciously sweet. She looked over at the woman beside her, reached out, and trailed one finger down her back.

“That tickles,” Berylla mumbled, and Alisaie grinned.

Splashing made them both look up, and Berylla leaned up on her arms a bit, her eyes opening, smiling tentatively. “Alphinaud!”

He waded up to them. His bag was gone, as was the canvas jacket. “Might I join you?” He swiped at his bangs, his expression just a little hesitant.

“Of course you can,” Berylla answered immediately, sitting up.

He clambered up onto the rock and settled himself onto the edge of the blanket, legs straight so that his feet were on the stone rather than getting the blanket damp. When Berylla leaned over and kissed his cheek, he gave her a small smile in return.

Alisaie, on the other side of Berylla from him, cocked her head. “Feeling better, brother?”

“Perhaps,” he answered. “The sun is not so overpowering as it was when we arrived.”

“I think they're starting to get things set up for the food,” Berylla said, pointing to a section of beach where smoke was rising. “That's where the barbecue pits are, so I'm pretty sure they're going to get everyone to gather on that side. Can you two smell it?”

All three of them sniffed the breeze, and Alisaie smiled. “That's a wonderful aroma.”

“It is,” Alphinaud agreed, sounding somewhat surprised. “Though I have no idea what they could be cooking in such quantities as to feed _this_ crowd.”

“Aurochs, probably.” Berylla waved towards the mainland. “They're all over the hills, and need regular culling anyway. Betting that they were handing out bounties for them for a week before the Faire.” She sniffed again. “They've done it the slow way, too. This is going to be _good_.”

“If you weren't a hero in two worlds,” Alisaie laughed, “I could believe you were as much of a gourmet as Lord Gegeruju!”

“And why can't I be both?” Berylla laughed back. Then she nudged her shoulder against Alphinaud's. “I'm glad you decided to come sit with us.”

He ducked his head a moment, and then leaned against her, and put his hand in hers.


	7. Never in a Hundred Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berylla gets a lesson in controlling her personal aether, from someone old enough to have seen stranger things than a Warrior of Light that doesn't know even the basics of her magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt was "nonagenarian," so this is what I came up with!

It was a quiet day in the Mists, a day of mild winds and bright sun, a day of fluffy puffs of white clouds and nary a hint of thunder.

A perfect day, hopefully, for a lesson in the control of aether.

Vidofnir lay curled and comfortable outside my still rather ramshackle cabin. I had the fire going, and there would be no dangerous vision seeking today; the tea in the kettle was Dragonhead Black, nothing more. Alisaie sat with her back against the large boulder, face tilted up to the sun.

“Thank you for doing this,” I said to her quietly.

“Y'Shtola told me you needed supervision.” Alisaie didn't open her eyes. “She didn't explain why, but I can well imagine what kind of trouble you might cause, not knowing what to do with your aether.”

“I...Yeah. Yeah, I've caused some trouble.” I decided to leave it at that. I didn't want to talk about the things that had happened. “At least, with you here, I won't get into too much difficulty. I hope.”

“Thou seekest to learn in a day what taketh most mortals a year or more.” Vidofnir's sides flexed as she rumbled out a low laugh. “Thou mayest expect difficulty.”

I shrugged. “Okay, but I can hope I won't hurt myself. Or either of you.”

Alisaie opened her eyes. “If you start to, trust me; I can stop you in your tracks.”

“I hope so. I honestly don't know how strong I am in this.”

She eyed me. “Berylla. Even if you were to attack me bare handed, I could stop you in your tracks. I know what I'm talking about.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it. Now wasn't the time to tell her she was mistaken if she thought she could actually contend with me physically. But I saw the twinkle of challenge in her eyes, the way she held my gaze, the confident smirk on her mouth. I knew that she'd bring it up again, eventually.

And when she did, I'd trounce her.

The kettle whistled, breaking up our miniature staring contest. I handed Alisaie the less beaten-up of my two mugs, and then poured a fair sized dollop of syrup into my own mug. I was glad I had brought the smaller pot of syrup out when she took it from me and practically emptied it into her tea.

“Worse than Aymeric, you are,” I teased. “Your teeth ought to fall out of your head.”

“They haven't yet,” she replied airily, and poured tea into my mug. I couldn't help but admire how deft she was about it – graceful and elegant and...

“How in hells did you learn to do that?”

“Learn to do what?” She glanced up at me as she set the kettle aside.

“Pouring tea. You make it look...like art. Or something.” I shook my head. “I sound like an idiot, don't I?”

“No.” She tilted her head. “I never thought about it, really. I suppose most folk wouldn't have had to learn such nonsense, would they...? High tea and all the manners that go with it. Thankfully,” she grinned at me, “I can dispense with the stuffy manners.” Then her smile softened a little. “And thank you for the compliment, Berylla.”

“Don't mention it,” I mumbled, and drank my tea before I could embarrass myself further.

Vidofnir snorted softly.

The tea was gone and I sat with my back to Vidofnir, not leaning against her this time. My legs were crossed, my eyes were closed, and I listened to her voice, trying to follow what she wanted me to do.

“Nay, thou hast lost the thread of it again.”

“Dammit,” I bit my lip. “I'm sorry. I can't...I can't see what I'm doing...”

“Thou canst draw upon thine aether to shield thyself in battle,” Vidofnir's voice was testy. “What I ask of thee now ought to be no different. It is thy _will_ that must be brought to bear, not thy sight.”

“I know – I – _ouch!_ ”

My eyes snapped open and I lifted my fingers to my mouth. “Ow,” I said again, sucking on the tips. They felt scorched.

“If I might offer a suggestion?”

I looked over at Alisaie. “Huh?”

But she was looking at Vidofnir. “If I am not being too forward, it seems to me that Berylla does not quite mean sight in the way that you think of it.”

“Eh?” The noise of confusion came from both me and Vidofnir.

Alisaie smiled. “Berylla has never trained in the arts magical,” she pointed out, tucking a wayward bit of hair behind her ear. “She does not know most of the terms that you or I use without a thought.”

“This I knew,” Vidofnir rumbled, “but pray continue.”

“I suspect what she means by not being able to see is that she cannot perceive ambient aether – or, perhaps, perceives it but poorly. You have been asking her to grasp threads of ambient energy, and it is entirely possible that she cannot in fact 'see' them in that sense.”

“Hm.” Vidofnir bent her head, tilting one eye down at me. I looked up at her and shrugged.

“I hath given instruction to my younger brood-mates for many decades,” the white dragon griped. “Never hath a problem such as this reared its head.”

“Never before have you instructed a mortal, however.” Alisaie's eyes sparkled. “And Berylla is a most exceptional mortal, though in this case not in the most exemplary of ways.”

“...Hey.” I frowned, and she put her hand over her mouth – not that I was fooled for one second. But I let her laugh at me. The moment of humor helped break me out of the growing sense that I was just never going to get the hang of this aether manipulation thing.

Vidofnir's head tilted again and I knew she was giving Alisaie a narrow look. “Even wert thou to live nine-and-ninety summers, little one,” she muttered, “Thou wouldst have but the tiniest fraction of my experience.”

“Of course,” Alisaie didn't seem bothered at all by the golden gaze fixed on her. “But you must admit, I am trained _differently_ from you. Sometimes a new perspective can help.”

The dragon grumbled for a moment under her breath. Then, she sighed, tousling Alisaie's hair. “Very well. What dost thou propose to do about this issue?”

“Let me link aether with her.”

Vidofnir's eyes narrowed and her breath huffed out. “That is the very thing that poseth the most danger,” she protested. “Yon warrior hath wrought great harm attempting such a link.”

“I didn't _know_ that's what I was doing,” I put in, but they didn't seem to hear me.

“If she were to initiate the contact, yes, but not if I am the one in control.” Alisaie's eyes took on that glint of challenge once more. “And I suspect I can make such a link with greater ease than you can, else you would have done it from the start, to better guide her efforts.”

Vidofnir's jaws clashed. “Thy cheek is unwelcome, stripling.”

“If I am wrong, I will apologize. Not until I am _proven_ wrong, however.”

“Attempt it. If thou art harmed, I shall have no sympathy for thee.”

Alisaie didn't reply to that. Instead she got up and came over to where I sat. Folding her legs, she sat down in front of me, so close that our knees almost touched. She set her hands on her knees, palm up, and told me, “Put your hands in mine, Berylla.”

“Are you really sure about this?”

“Yes.” Her usual cocky grin was gone, and there was no laughter in her eyes now.

I set my hands over hers.

“Shut your eyes.”

I obeyed.

“Now. You can feel your own aether, of course. Can you feel anything else? Pay attention as best you can. Tell me what you think you see.”

I concentrated. “Well. I can tell where Vidofnir is. She's really, um, big.” I tried to ignore how foolish I felt and sounded. “And there's a lot of wiggly stuff, all over. Like snow, you know?”

“Most others describe it as motes of dust in a sunbeam,” Alisaie noted. “Interesting that you think of snow.”

“It's...it's fluffy.”

She was silent a moment. “Can you see me?”

“...kind of? Not very well though.”

“Hm, yes. And now?”

“Holy hells, what – ”

“Do not open your eyes,” she warned. “You'll only have to start all over.”

“But you're _glowing!_ ”

“Only to the sense you're now using.”

“But how?”

“That's what Vidofnir's trying to teach you. How to do what I've just done.”

I bit my lip. “But you're a mage. I'm just a – ”

Her hands tightened on mine and the white-hot glowing that was her “self” seemed to flare. “Don't you dare say you're a dumb warrior. Half of the trick to aether manipulation, Berylla, is _belief_ – believing that you can work your will on your own aether.”

“...oh.”

“Oh, indeed. Now then.” Her glow dimmed, but now the place where our hands touched became – fuzzy somehow – and then I felt it.

“Hey, you're – that is you, isn't it?”

“Well, that's good then.” Her energy tangled into mine, and I was reminded of what I had done to Y'Shtola.

“Careful...”

“Don't you worry about me. Watch what I do.”

I found, to my surprise, that I _could_ watch what she was doing, because she was hauling at my aether, forming it into a shape, a shield.

“ _Oh!_ ”

“Now you do it.”

It took me a few minutes to copy what she held before me. But eventually I got there – my own shield a rather ragged looking copy, but thicker than what she had wrought.

Vidofnir spoke. “Well. There is something to be said for a different perspective, I grant thee.”

“I helped teach a few first-year students, back home,” Alisaie said, with absolutely no pride. “It was a most eye opening experience.”

“So now what?” I asked. “I just...do this?”

“Now,” Vidofnir answered, “defend thyself.”

She shoved me – with power, not with her body – and I squawked in surprise. I lost my hold on my aether and physically fell over.

I leaned on my hands, shaking my head, feeling dizzy and disoriented. “What was _that_ for?”

“As I said,” Vidofnir answered. “Defend thyself.” And without any further warning she shoved at me again. I held my hands up in front of me, instinctively, and tried to make the same shield that I had made before. The thing that formed was lumpy and not very shield like at all, but it worked – the energy that Vidofnir pushed at me stopped.

“Better!” She did not let up the pressure. “Form thy bulwark, shape it, keep me away from thee!”

Even as she spoke, the energy between us changed, becoming less like a massive palm pushing and more like a lance, a focused point of pressure, almost painful.

I had not had to think in terms of sword and shield for years, but that didn't matter.

 _Deflection_ – I hardened my aether and tilted it, and her lance skidded off to the side, force sinking into the ground beside me. The grass smoked. _She's actually going to hurt me if I fuck up!_

Understanding that I was in real danger sharpened my focus. I was certain that Vidofnir intended exactly that.

Her next attack whirled toward me, a spinning edge that bit into my shield like a saw into wood. I bit my lip and poured my energy into the shield, trying to repair it as fast she burned through, but I could see that wasn't going to work for long.

_Think, damn it, what the hell can I do about a gods-forsaken saw-blade?_

The image of a rattling plank, incorrectly clamped – I realized that just because a real shield had to be held in my hands did not mean that this energy, this aether shield, obeyed the same rule. I loosened my “grip” on it – and it went flying and Vidofnir's attack bit into me.

“Fuck!”

She stopped, instantly, and Alisaie was right there. She put a hand over my upper arm. The slash that Vidofnir had inflicted stopped bleeding and closed over, but it still hurt.

“Thou art doing much better, now. Dost understand why my blow affected thee?”

“I let go?”

“You _can_ shape it into more than just a single small shield.” Alisaie murmured.

I blinked at her, and then thought hard for a minute. I bent my head and shut my eyes and tried hard to call up the shield of energy again. It was easier, this time, as if my energy – or maybe my will – was getting used to the idea. I poked at the shield that I held only in my mind, and finally figured out what Alisaie meant.

“Good.” That was all the warning I got, and Vidofnir attacked once more. I understood that she wasn't out to kill me, merely to give me consequences if I fucked up again; but I wondered faintly how Alphinaud had ever survived fighting her.

The saw-blade shape came at me again, and this time I spun my “shield” into an arching shape, not unlike the wall of force I could summon up – but this wall did not touch the ground. Instead it was “slippery” - slick and spinning, the “teeth” of Vidofnir's attack could no longer gain purchase.

“Exactly!”

I grinned a little at the enthusiasm in Alisaie's voice, and then gasped as Vidofnir's energy burst into flames.

The flames consumed my shield – literally eating the energy, burning through. I spun the shield faster, but it didn't help much. I could feel the heat increasing, could feel sweat on my face, and the pricking, itching sensation of skin just about to burn.

Then I heard Alisaie hiss in pain, and every protective instinct in me roared.

I wasn't quite sure what I did then – my mind thought of it as _stealing_ Vidofnir's fire. Whatever the fancy word for it might have been, my shield expanded, became “sticky” in a way that made the burning energy of her attack catch on the surface of my own energy – and then I dragged that energy away and absorbed it, took it in, made it mine, and put it back into the shield, making it stronger and stronger, the harder she tried to incinerate it.

I was sweating freely, and the heat wasn't subsiding. _Not enough. I'm not doing enough. I need cold...can I even do that?_

I smelled scorched hair.

I _grabbed_ Vidofnir's energy with mine, ignoring the burning of my “hands,” and I wrestled with it, taking it away from her and forcing it to become what I wanted. I heard the white dragon grunt.

Then something changed, and I had more energy than I knew what to do with.

Where there had been fire, now there was ice. I felt it gathering on my skin, heard the grass crackling, I could smell a scent like a snowstorm – _too much_ – I felt lost, cast adrift. I no longer held the energy, it held me, and it crested like a wave, poised to crash –

What happened then, I couldn't tell. It felt like being struck from the side and tackled to the ground, it felt like taking a step forward and falling off a cliff I didn't know was there. I cried out.

I opened my eyes. Grass tickled my nose. I hurt, as if I had rolled down an entire hill of pointy rocks. I groaned.

“Oh, good, you didn't kill her after all.” Alisaie's voice was sharp with concern. “You should know better at your age, than to push that hard.”

“Do not think to chide me, youngster,” Vidofnir sounded tired. “Such is the way of my people. Besides, thy blow wert effective, as thou promised.”

“Are we done for a little while?” I knew I sounded plaintive and pitiful, but damn it, I _felt_ rather pitiful just now.

“Aye.” Vidofnir sighed.

I turned onto my back, looking up at the sky. “Ow,” I said, almost contemplatively. “I guess that wasn't the thing to do.”

“It was a good idea in theory,” Alisaie answered. “Come now.”

She tugged on my hand, and helped me to sit up. I glanced around.

The grass was much abused in a small circle around me – some scorched, some with bits of frost still clinging, like strange jewels as they caught the sunlight and melted.

“We can discuss the finer points of transmutation later,” Alisaie told me. “For now, I think you've earned a rest.”

“And lest thou thinkest thy efforts in vain,” Vidofnir added, “thou hast performed to a standard worthy of a dragon.” Her golden eyes glittered. “A very young, very stupid dragon. But nonetheless.”

“I'll take it as a compliment,” I laughed. I was so tired. Vidofnir looked pretty whacked too.

I let Alisaie help me up and get me over to the fire; let her fuss over me and heal the burns that I had on my hands and arms. I lay back, when she was done, and let my gaze rest on a cloud.

Never in a hundred years would I have expected to spend an afternoon learning magic and sparring with a dragon. My eyes drifted over to Vidofnir, who looked as thoughtful as I felt. _I'm betting she never expected something quite like this either_.

Still. I would never forget what the two of them had shown me. And maybe, just maybe, I would never, ever hurt someone again the way I'd hurt Y'Shtola.


	8. Clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amaurot is burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOTS OF 5.0 Spoilers!  
> Also be aware that there are some horrible mental images, and death, in this one. It's rough, so please use caution!

Amaurot was burning.

She wandered along the street, avoiding rubble where she could. The Bureau of the Secretary was a pyre, the very stones of its towering edifice blazing like an unholy torch. The great glass-steel arches with their elegant interwoven spirals were sundered, bent and twisted, jagged edges reaching like desperate claws into the sky. Even the crystalline blocks that ornamented so many of the buildings of the city were smoldering in places, where they were not merely shattered and scattered, reflecting the burning sky in a million facets and shards.

Just a dream, this had to be just a bad dream. She gazed up helplessly at the front of the Akademia Anyder, and began to walk towards its doors. Maybe one of the wise old scholars here would know how to help her wake up.

She stepped inside, and breathed a sigh of relief as the incessant roaring stopped, the thick door blocking all sound from outside. It was dark in the lobby – but perhaps it was only that her eyes had become too accustomed to the fiery brightness in the streets.

But as she looked around, her eyes began to sting.

Rubble here, too, and destruction. One of the inner doors was hanging precariously, and even as she watched in disbelief, its hinge creaked and snapped, and the great door thundered as it hit the floor.

To go back outside was unthinkable. To go on, terrifying. She was only a little girl! Where was everyone? Who would help her? Why were they away, when she needed them?

Her parents had always told her to keep looking, that someone was always close by. That she was never _really_ alone. She would trust in their teachings.

She walked forward, into the dark beyond the broken door.

He hovered in the air and wept silently as he listened to his city screaming.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. They had done _everything_ they could – _everything they could think of_ – and nothing had changed. Glass-steel shrieked, somewhere to his right, and he heard the cacophonous clamor as another of the spiraling, ornamental towers of his beloved Amaurot crashed to the ground, sundered at the molecular level, aether weakening in ways they could not understand or prevent or repair.

All his power, all his talent, all his _genius_ , and he could only watch as his world lay dying at his feet.

Nightmares made into reality – their powers of creation gone horribly wrong, with no explanation as to why. He could hear them, in his mind, hear all the people of Amaurot screaming and screaming in terror and pain and despair.

A thin sound somehow pierced through all the clamor and chaos, and he jerked in place, back going straight and stiff, as that sound struck him in the heart.

A child crying.

Power and instinct and a desperate need to help _someone_ , sent him speeding down into the tumbled ruins of the Akademia Anyder.

The creatures here had always been nice, before – the squid who always looked right back at her, curious glance for curious glance, and the strange water horse, and the lumpy but weirdly graceful marlboro, who left little bunches of flowers for visitors to pick, some of the time at least.

They were not nice now.

Many of them were dead. She had been sick at first, seeing the torn flesh and the blood, but after a little while, she _could not_ sick up any more, and simply walked, drifting almost, lost and confused and no longer sure even which way she should go to leave.

But the marlboro was not dead.

She huddled inside the knot of wrecked tables and whimpered. Her mask was shattered and some of her hair tumbled out from under her hood, but she was far beyond caring about that. Another scream shredded the air, and she clapped her hands over her ears and cried out, trying to drown out the sound that would follow all too soon, the horrible tearing noises and the splattering of blood and bits of insides.

The marlboro was not nice _at all_.

“Help me,” she wept, not knowing to whom she called out, only knowing she was scared and powerless and utterly alone.

When the shattered wood around her shifted, she screamed, certain that the marlboro had found her, that she would now be the one ripped limb from limb. She did not want to die!

“Here now, sh. Come here, child.”

Her eyes popped open, and she saw him – black robe, red mask, a real Grownup. She hurled herself at him, wrapping her arms around his leg, clinging with panicked strength.

He grunted a little and set his hands on her arms. “Come now, let me pick you up, little one. It will be easier to get you out of here if I carry you.”

Sniffling she let him grasp her arms and lift her, setting her little head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his neck. But before he could take a step, she shrieked in pure terror.

“Look out!”

The marlboro gave a disgusting belch and its vining limbs shot out towards the two of them. She whimpered, but the one carrying her turned around to face the monster. He lifted his other hand, the one not supporting her weight, and snapped his fingers.

Silence.

She craned her neck, and gaped to see that the marlboro was gone – vanished completely.

“I told Halmarut those were a foolish idea,” the man muttered. “Come now, little one. Let us leave this place.”

They were flying.

She gazed down across the city as they ascended higher and higher. They were so far up now that she could see the horizon bending.

 _Everything_ was on fire.

“What is happening?” she whispered.

“I don't know,” he murmured. “But...we will find a way to fix it all. Somehow.”

She shifted in his grip, and looked up at him, really looked. “Oh,” her voice quivered a little. “You're...you're the Emet-Selch.”

“I am. Don't worry, I don't bite, child.”

“Where are we going?”

“Hopefully,” his mouth seemed to quirk and his tone was strange and sad, “to a place of safety.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder again. “All right.”

Emet-Selch shut his eyes for a moment, glad of the unquestioning faith the little girl displayed. It soothed his soul, a little, to know that at least one being in the world still trusted in him, still had hope, faint and inarticulate as that hope might be.

“Tell me your name, child.”

But she had, incredibly, fallen asleep in his arms.  
No matter. He would have time to ask again when they got where they were going.

He didn't even hear it coming.

She was asleep in his arms still, and they were not yet in sight of the safe-haven. Elidibus had asked him to build it, centuries ago, before they could ever have imagined the insanity that had encompassed them all. But he was the Emet-Selch, the Architect, and what he built, _endured_.

So focused was he on reaching that place that he failed to properly watch above them.

His only warning was a shrieking – high pitched and so loud it hurt his ears – and then the first meteor slammed into his shoulder blade, sending him spinning backwards and down. His arms sprang open, a motion he could not control.

“ _ **NO!**_ ”

He rolled in the air, desperately trying to keep his eyes on her, and let himself fall. He angled his body, arms swept back, eyes stinging as he picked up speed, robes flapping and tearing in the turbulence. More flaming debris streaked past him, heading for the ground, and he realized with horror that the two of them were in the middle of a meteor storm.

He tried to snap his fingers, to bring her to him, but his panic shattered his concentration and the meteors that suddenly surrounded him scrambled his aether, leaving him dizzy and disoriented for a moment.

A mere breath – but long enough.

His mouth opened but he could not even scream as he saw the fiery rocks streak past him, saw them strike her little form. She did not cry out.

And then she was gone.

He blinked, and looked around in confusion. He had been hovering over the city, and then...

But how had he gotten here?

The cold white radiance of the moonscape outside the window cast harsh shadows inside.

“You are with us once more.”

Emet-Selch turned, and saw Elidibus, in his white robe.

“I...yes.” He rubbed at his forehead, and only then realized his mask was gone. “What...?”

“I found you plummeting to the earth,” Elidibus said. “I am not certain why you were taking a nap in the middle of a meteor storm. I had not thought you that prone to dropping off.”

Emet-Selch paused. “I wasn't...” Memory struck him. “There was a child.”

“There was not.”

“There was,” he insisted. “I – I rescued her from Amaurot. I was bringing her here. And then...”

“There was no child anywhere near you.”

“She fell. I...” Emet-Selch swallowed hard. He felt cold all the way down to his bones. “I dropped her, Elidibus.”

“Your mind is cracking under the stress. Understandable, but kindly collect yourself. We will need all our wits about us if we are to salvage anything at all of the star.” The white robed man turned, heading out of the room. He paused at the door, and looked back.

His colleague stood as if rooted to the spot. His eyes were screaming, though his mouth stayed closed.

“Emet-Selch?”

“...Yes. Yes, of course.”

But even as he followed Elidibus, Emet-Selch could only hear a rushing wind in his mind – and the sound of one man weeping.


	9. A Day at the Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truly, the wonders of the Akademia seem never to cease...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt was "Lush"

Alcyone loved the Akademia. It was her favorite place in the whole City, and though her family only traveled to Amaurot once every season, they always made a day just for visiting the great university.

Sometimes her older brother Adrastos taunted her, saying she was too dumb to ever hope to enter the Akademia except as a tourist. But Aeolus her father would always tell her such wonderful and funny stories of his own time there, and every story ended with him saying to her, “And when you are studying there, I hope you will remember my mistakes and not repeat them!”

So she ignored her brother, and eagerly skipped along beside her father as they approached the imposing building. “A veritable temple of knowledge,” Aeolus said, just as he always did, and her mother hummed in contented agreement, just as she always did.

Her brother, of course, said nothing, but she knew he was rolling his eyes behind his mask. Her older sisters had had no interest in this place either, but at least the twins had not been _rude_. She missed them, a little bit. Phaedra had gone off to another city entirely, and they only got to see her once a year now; and Phoebe worked for the Bureau of the Architect now, and they saw her not at all, for the Emet-Selch was a demanding man and gave his assistants breaks almost as infrequently as he himself took them.

But they were entering, now, and wistful thoughts of her graceful sisters faded in the face of her growing excitement.

“Ah! Aeolus, right on time as always.” Halmarut himself greeted them, and Alcyone could not help but hop up and down with glee. She wanted to run and hug the Professor, but her mother gave her a small warning look, and she restrained herself. She was too old now to act with unseemly enthusiasm. What might be tolerated in a baby of six years was most certainly not acceptable in a young lady of ten. Why, in only three more years she would be undergoing the examinations that might allow her to finish her standard schooling right here in the City. She was practically a Grownup!

So she held in her bubbling happiness and merely grinned up at the tall Professor of Horticultural Experiments. Halmarut leaned down – she preened that he no longer had to bend his knees to reach her – and patted her head fondly. “And my favorite little explorer, too. Have you been behaving, young lady?”

“Yes, sir!” Alcyone caroled.

Adrastos murmured a polite greeting, and then suddenly became very quiet and still. Alcyone looked over at him, confused by the sudden tremble through his aether. Then she saw what he saw, and stared for a moment herself.

Brilliantly colored feathers – like a fountain of green and blue – rose up above everyone as something took flight. Below, a citizen in a blue mask held her arm aloft, clearly having just released the creature from its concept crystal.

“Ah, that would be the new tropical species,” Halmarut smiled. “Our esteemed colleagues worked hard this past three years, studying in the deep jungles of the southeastern peninsula. The creature ought to help balance that ecology...”

He kept talking, about seed distributions and how the creature would help improve the vigor of most every species in its new home, but Alcyone had trouble listening. The great bird was just so beautiful! Broad wings that tapered so elegantly as the animal mantled, and a delicate pointed beak that opened and uttered the fiercest cry she'd ever heard – eyes of blazing emerald green – and a tail that was as long as the bird was tall, longer maybe, spreading out like a fanciful cloak. Her eyes were fixed on it even as it landed on the floor not ten feet away from her.

It fixed her with one bright eye and called out again – and then –

“Oh!”

The entire crowd oohed and aah'd, and Alcyone clapped her hands in wonder and delight. The long, long tail now rose up, fanning out in a full glorious half-circle, framing the elegant head, and as the light struck the feathers, brilliant hues of green and blue and gold practically _glowed_ , making a pattern as of dozens of staring eyes.

“I believe its creator named this species the Splendid Peacock.” Halmarut chuckled. “I do believe they may have been studying some of the more recent artists in the City as inspiration.”

“So pretty,” Alcyone cooed, and the great bird arched its neck at her. She might even have tried to pet it, but her father patted her shoulder.

“Come now, my precious little bird,” he said, “We should not keep the Professor waiting.”

“Yes, Papa,” she answered, and put her hand in his. With one last glance back at the gorgeous Peacock, she followed Professor Halmarut and her family into the Akademia proper.

Not until the great doors closed did Alcyone notice that her brother and her mother had not accompanied them. She looked up at her father, and he smiled. “Not to worry. Your mother stays with Adrastos, as he wished to speak with someone. They'll catch up, never fear.”

“All right.” She was more than willing to let it go. Without her brother here to tease her, she could focus more fully on the wonderful displays.

First, of course, were the marine ecology dioramas and the great tank that held so many of the more unusual recent species. The seas were mighty and deep, and the entire star depended on their bounty and on the healthy balancing of its many environments. Alcyone felt a certain affinity for the sea, though she was far more fascinated by coral reefs and kelp beds than the terrible and majestic sharks that were her brother's favorite.

Though both of them still agreed on one thing. Fido the Whale was the best whale on the entire star. But since Adrastos was not here, they did not stop to hear the silly story about the great black-and-white orca once again.

But the real treat – for her – was the second stop on the usual tour. The Great Gardens.

Never had she seen such lush growth, anywhere else – she was no world traveler, but images and concepts were available for anyone to see the sights of the whole star, and even the beautiful expanses of the southeastern jungles seemed to pale in comparison to the riot of blossoms and profusion of plants beneath the great glass-steel dome.

The Professor paused for a moment, taking the flask off his hip and taking a long swallow. Alcyone had asked once, what was in the flask, and Halmarut had only smiled and told her it was medicine.

Adrastos had tried to tell Alcyone it was a strong liquor, with a _very naughty_ name. When Aelous had heard Adrastos say it, her brother had been in trouble for three whole days. She wasn't sure why anyone would drink something with such a terrible name as “Bloody Hell.” Really, she thought Adrastos must have made it up. Surely a man as accomplished and respectable as Professor Halmarut would never need to drink liquor as if it were _medicine_.

A rustling of vines greeted them the moment they set foot on the luxuriantly green lawn, and Halmarut smiled. “Ah, the new seedlings have become motile, just this morning.”

Alcyone squeaked, and knelt down to pet the little Marlboro. It was only about the size of their fat cat back home, and its skin was smooth and green like a not-quite-ripe tomato. Its little vines were fuzzy and delicate as they explored her wrist and her hand. It mumbled at her, in the way that Marlboros did, its toothless maw drooling just a little bit.

“Oh, Professor! Look!” she exclaimed, “This one has a flower already!”

“Why so she does,” Halmarut smiled, and indulgently he went to one knee next to her. His long fingers, permanently stained, pointed gently to the miniature rose that sprouted from the left hand side of the Marlboro's head. “I plan to call her kind Xochitl, you know. This crop has been particularly vigorous, and all females, just as I had hoped,” he told her. “Do you recall why that matters, Alcyone?”

“Because you want them to be p-pathologi – no,wait...” She scrunched up her face a little, trying to get the word right. “Parthenogenic. So that they can reproduce even if there aren't any males available.”

“Very good! With these, I hope to be able to repopulate areas that are lacking in vegetation and predators, in one creature.”

“What on earth for?” Aeolus laughed. “It seems a bit strange, Halmarut – won't the herbivores have a rough time making a meal of a plant that can _bite back?_ ”

“Not all of them,” Halmarut answered easily. “The mega-fauna in the north continent have gotten quite adept at demolishing anything small enough to fit in their mouths. Left unchecked, they might even deforest the lower slopes of the mountains there.”

The two of them started discussing predator pressure – again – and Alcyone continued petting the Marlboro seedling. The two old friends often went off on such tangents, and she was used to it – and after all, it afforded her more time to coo over the adorable baby plant

Her father's specialty was herd management, and so he had quite an interest in such matters. Their home was on the plains of this continent, and their community oversaw great herds of beasts – aurochs, karakul, horses – all sorts of things. If they moved in great groups and ate plants, her father knew _everything_ there was to know about them. He was the one they sent to report to the central bureaus every quarter. Otherwise, her family would never visit Amaurot. There was always so much to do and take care of back home.

There was a thumping sound, and the ground trembled a little. Halmarut stood up, and tugged on Alcyone's robe just a little. “Come now. That would be the mother, coming to find her wayward little one.”

Alcyone left off petting the baby and stepped back to the edge of the lawn. The baby whined, and started to follow them.

But it squealed a moment later when a gigantic vine wrapped around it and plucked it up into the air.

The mother Marlboro was enormous – fully three times as tall as her father. Its skin was just the color of a ripe melon, but furry as if covered in moss; its vines were meters long, and very supple, and several different shades of green – the lighter colors representing the oldest limbs. One vine hung limply off to the side, gone yellowish – it was about to fall off. That happened, sometimes, as Alcyone knew. The mother growled, a deep rumbling sound that made slime shiver off her fangs, and she curled her baby close to her, even as it squalled in protest.

Two other vines reached out towards them – nearly close enough to touch – and then Halmarut lifted one hand, and the reaching vines instead lowered, caressed the grass, and then retracted. The mother Marlboro growled once more, then shuffled away, her baby's squealing fading as she left.

Where the vines had touched the grass, two patches of wildly colorful flowers now grew.

“Go ahead, little explorer,” Halmarut told Alcyone. “Pick the flowers she left for you.”

She obeyed, grinning hugely.

She really loved the Akademia. She hoped that one day _she_ could make creatures as wonderful as what the Professor had created.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giving a shout out to my very wonderful D&D friends, who will have caught all the sly little references in this to some of our more memorable (mis)adventures!


	10. All Her Cries, to No Avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird came back to the Find with happy news, only to be met with news of a far different sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Avail."
> 
> MANY THANKS to the wonderful [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) for the use of her characters!

Nightbird rode into St. Coinach’s smiling.

Her appointment with the midwives had set her mind at ease. G’raha would be so thrilled with her news. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face, how his ears would wiggle with joy, how he would laugh for pure happiness...

But when she dismounted and looked around, she frowned a little, puzzled. The camp was rather quiet, considering that it looked like everyone was back - even that bevy of engineers Cid had hauled in before she left for Gridania. There were signs of packing up, too. How odd.

Rammbroes saw her, and waved her over. She walked towards the big man, but as she caught his solemn expression, her ears flattened. She had a bad feeling. Something had happened.

Felina’s ears twitched even as she worked beside Pale, packing yet another crate full of - whatever the hells this stuff was. She wanted to know when Nightbird returned. Her friend was surely going to be upset when she found out what that idiot Tia had done…

Her ears swiveled as a familiar chocobo whistle broke through the air. Nightbird was back. She scanned the camp and saw her speaking with Rammbroes. From the set of her shoulders, she could tell her friend was already hearing the news.

“No.” She stared up at the Roegadyn scholar. “No, that...that can’t be right.”

“I am so very sorry, Nightbird. We could not stop him, could not persuade him.”

“No, you don’t understand - he, he promised me…” Tears stood in her eyes.

Rammbroes tried to reach out to her, but she jerked away from him. Spinning on her heels, she sprinted for the chocobokeep.

She leaped onto the back of the first bird in the picket line. The startled creature uttered a shrill  _ “WARK?!” _ as she landed in its saddle and snatched its reins free. Even before the keeper could reach her, she dug her heels viciously into the bird’s sides.

“ _ Kweh  _ **_kweh!!_ ** ” The bird took off at top speed. Behind her, Rammbroes called out, and the camp began to stir.

Felina charged towards the chocobokeep, too late to catch Nightbird, but she sprang for another bird anyway. She swung up into the saddle and called out to Pale. “She’s heading for the tower!”

He dropped the crate he was carrying without much thought for its contents, and raced to his bird. Felina was already far ahead, but he already knew where they would find the small, angry Miqo’te. “Hah!” He urged the chocobo into a run after the two of them.

The poor chocobo was draped across the bottom steps that led up into the Labyrinth, panting and whimpering with exhaustion. Nightbird had taken the teleporter to bypass the Labyrinth and reach this second level, and now she  _ ran  _ as fast as she could down the long hall that led to the grand, golden doors. Her breath burned in her lungs, her tears burned down her cheeks.

She ran until she reached the end of the hall and then she flung her body against the titanic doors. She wept and beat the doors with her fists, scraped at the seam between the leaves of the door, and screamed his name.

“Raha! Raha, you come out here  _ this instant! _ You son of a bitch,  _ get out here! _ You  _ promised  _ me, damn you!  _ G’raha Tia!! _ ”

There was no answer, even as her screams echoed down the hall.

“ **_RAHA!!!_ ** ”

By the time the others reached her, Nightbird was on her knees. Her hands were bloodied - knuckles scraped, nails torn, flesh bruised down to the bone. She leaned against the doors like a broken doll, and yet she still tried to call out to her lover. Her voice was harsh and broken with hysterical sobs, and her body shook with shock and exhaustion.

Felina was kneeling down beside her friend but hesitant to touch her in her present state. Pale swung down from his saddle and ran over to them. “Nightbird.” The small miqo’te only stared and shivered, not seeming to see them at all. Felina looked over to Pale. “We have to get her back to camp.”

He said nothing, only nodding and stepping forward to gather the trembling woman into his arms. She fought the Elezen as he lifted her, weakly thrashing, cursing him with language such as none of them had ever heard from the dainty Miqo'te before. But she was no match for his determination to carry her away. Felina mounted, and he handed the struggling woman up to her. She managed to wrap a chocobo blanket around Nightbird in an effort to contain and soothe her. They rode back in silence as their friend wept.

Once they had her back at the camp, the healer forced a sedative potion down her throat. Then, the white robed woman asked Pale to carry Nightbird to her own tent to rest, and with Felina, she accompanied the two of them to make sure the Miqo'te  _ stayed  _ in bed.

Stepping out of her tent, the healer looked up at Rammbroes. He and Cid waited beside Pale; all three men had identical frowns of worry on their faces.

“She must not be left unsupervised,” the woman told them. “Grief can do strange things to the mind. She has never before shown any inclination to self harm, but…” She cast a glance back at Nightbird’s tent. “Best not to risk it.”

Pale nodded. “We’ll make sure she’s not alone.” He glanced over to the tent. “Felina’s still with her for the moment, and I imagine she doesn’t want to leave her side. They’ve been close for a long time.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “What do you need me to do?”

The healer shrugged. “There’s very little anyone can do, for now. Just watching over her will have to be enough. Hopefully, her body will not…” The woman’s lips pressed shut.

“Will not, what?” Cid asked.

Pale frowned deeply, the look in his eyes hardening to steel. “We’ll keep her safe. It won’t come to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felina and Pale belong to my friend [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville)  
> You can find more about them in her fic:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/25440667/chapters/61701154


	11. Flawed Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird's cousin Summermoon is a bit of an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For today's prompt: ultracrepidarian!  
> Which essentially means, talking about things you don't actually know anything about. And don't we ALL know someone like that?

Estinien eyed the short fellow before him with mild suspicion. “Come again?”

The dark skinned Miqote man crossed his arms and gave the dragoon a rather smug grin. “You don't know, do you? About Miqote heats?”

“Plainly I do not. Get to the point,” Estinien growled.

The man standing in front of him looked a great deal like Nightbird – as well he might, as he was of her blood.

Summermoon was some sort of close cousin, and apparently, he was also her only living relative. She had recently reconnected with the man, through quite an unlikely sequence of events, all of which had happened while Estinien was out of the city. He had returned to find her making arrangements for the fellow to have lodgings – thankfully not near her own.

She had hired him as a retainer, just to make sure he was cared for and had gainful employment. Those had been her exact words. He was plainly quite dear to her, though Estinien could not for the life of him see why. The fellow was infernally _chipper_ , worse than Haurchefant had ever been. It was no wonder he hadn't been able to keep a job for long, with that smirking face of his.

Perhaps it was only that he was family that Nightbird had such concern for him.

His attention was dragged back to the conversation by Summermoon's words.

“Well, you do know what the word means in a general sense, right?”

Estinien favored Summermoon with a sarcastic laugh. “No, I was born yesterday. Get _on_ with it.”

“Well, we Miqote – our women anyway – go through them. It's a whole _thing_ in the tribes, but for the ones like me and Cousin, who wander where we will...” He shrugged. “There are medicines to help block it, but sometimes they don't work very well, and sometimes it's hard even to find 'em. I've heard plenty of ladies complaining about it.”

He pulled a little paper from his shirt pocket, and waved it at Estinien. The dragoon couldn't actually read the words on the flapping paper, but it was clearly some sort of list.

“My dear Cousin is getting near to time for one. And if the list of stuff she wants me to hunt for is right, 'Bird doesn't have her medicines.”

“...are you concerned for her well-being, or are you telling me this for some other reason?”

“Well, there's no guarantee I can actually get this stuff in time,” Summermoon said. “So I figured I would give you the heads up. You're her Nunh as it were.”

“Her what?”

Summermoon waved his hand dismissively. “Her lover, her mate, whatever word you prefer. I'm her double first cousin, _I_ sure can't take care of her.”

Estinien blinked at the man for a few seconds. Then he began to scowl. “I think you had better speak very plainly, and very slowly, and explain _very_ carefully.”

“Yeah, that was what I was about to do, big guy.” Summermoon appeared to be not fazed one bit by the forbidding expression on the dragoon's face. “So see, the women of our family – well our tribe – are pretty ferocious even for Miqote. So during their heat they get really, really needy, and gods help you if they aren't kept satisfied until the end of the heat. The stories I heard...” He smiled, too widely. “They get bitey, let's leave it at that.”

“And you are telling me that Nightbird is soon to undergo this...heat.” Estinien's brows knit. “How do you know such a thing?”

Summermoon tapped the side of his nose. “I can smell it. Any Miqote can. Not most others though.” That last was said with a condescending sort of smirk and Estinien bit back the urge to just strangle the fellow on the spot.

“And what must be done to...” Estinien frowned. “No, that much I can figure out for myself. Why are you telling me about this?”

“I'm just trying to look out for 'Bird, y'know?” Summermoon shrugged. “Sure hope you can keep up.”

“You need not concern yourself with my endurance,” Estinien growled. “Only with my patience, which you are beginning to wear thin.”

The Miqote's eyebrows went up and his eyes widened, but his ears stayed stubbornly raised. “Oh, I beg your pardon then, mighty dragoon!” His eyes gleamed for a moment as he dropped the fake expression of alarm. “I'll say it real crude. She might get cranky soon; that's usually the first sign. If she doesn't get medicine, you're going to be in for three, maybe six days of non stop fucking. The kind of thing where you have to keep going until she passes out from it. If you don't think you can handle that, maybe I need to hunt up some help for you, before she does.”

Estinien's hands shot out, and he was lifting the smaller man by the front of his shirt, slamming him against the wall. Teeth bared, his voice dropped into a draconic rumble. “You will do no such thing, and you will _never_ speak of this to anyone ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

Now Summermoon was actually frightened. His ears were flat, his tail bushed out, and he struggled weakly in the dragoon's grip. “Okay, okay,” he whined. “ _Okay!_ I won't say anything to anybody else!”

Estinien held him a moment more before dropping him unceremoniously. The smaller man staggered a bit and leaned one hand on the wall behind him to steady himself.

“Try to do a guy a favor...” But Summermoon glanced at the dragoon and closed his mouth before he said anything more.

“Your warning is heard,” Estinien told him. “You may rest assured that I will watch over Nightbird.” His lip curled. “You may also be sure that I shall not tell you a single detail about anything that may pass between the two of us. Ever.”

He didn't wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and stalked away from the Crozier, and headed for the Harp in Hand. He needed an ale. Or three. And a little time to think.

Fortunately, Fleurance knew him well enough now not to need much talking from him – one look at his face, and she drew an ale for him without a word. She took his coin and his murmur of thanks with a simple nod, and gestured to the back table, the one she usually kept free for Nightbird's mentor, Marius.

Estinien sat down, and drank a good half of his mug in one swallow, taking some time to calm himself. All his possessive instincts had roared to the forefront of his mind for a moment there. Even if the man himself had no designs on Nightbird...the mere implication that anyone else might touch her was enough to enrage the dragon within him.

The man was a smirking fool, but Estinien realized uncomfortably that he was likely not lying. What reason would he truly have for doing so, after all? It profited him nothing. And yet...something seemed odd about his information. Estinien drank again, and considered. He didn't know any other Miqote. Well, not well enough to ask about something like this. He did know a fellow who was involved with a Miqote woman, a situation not unlike his own arrangement with Nightbird...but he was certainly not going to hunt the man down just to ask questions that could only come across as nosy at best and prurient at worst.

This was likely not the sort of thing written down in tomes – even if he could bring himself to ask Alphinaud to research such a subject. He was fairly sure the young man was no longer a virgin, but Fury! They would both die of embarrassment before Estinien finished asking.

Haurchefant would have known. Estinien finished his ale and signaled to the server. Fleurance had taken to hiring boys for waiting tables, since the unrest just after Nidhogg's death; the little fellow who came trotting up had to have been one of the waifs she rescued from homelessness back then. He took Estinien's order with a silent nod and a small smile, and brought another ale and a bowl of stew just as silently. Estinien was glad of that friendly silence. It almost felt like being back in the barracks with his dragoons. None of them were much given to chatter, but the silences had been _good_ silences.

Not unlike the silences of that lonely time after he had departed Ishgard. He had left everything behind, then, had wandered where he would and spoken to no one, and that silence had nearly driven him mad. He did not need constant bustle around him – but he could admit now, he needed the sort of silence that only comes from being with a friend. The kind of silence he had once shared with Haurchefant, and Aymeric. The silence he now he shared with Nightbird.

He ate his food absently, as he decided just what to do.

He'd keep an eye out. His senses were surely the equal of any Miqote's – possibly superior to most. And he _knew_ his beloved, knew her like no one else on this star could know her. He _would_ notice any changes in her, he was certain of that much.

If, or when, she came into heat...the prospect did not displease him, really. So long as she consented to have him, he would certainly be able to perform in such a way. But a heat meant...

His mind skittered away from the thought, and he forced himself to face the idea squarely. It meant children. He wasn't even sure that he could get her with child – he was no Miqote after all. But it was better to assume they were compatible in that way...and if children should result...

But all he could think of, all he could wonder, was whether or not it would make Nightbird happy. He knew nothing of pregnancy, of child-bearing, much less of raising a little one. He found that the prospect did not daunt him. They could not be any worse than dragons, after all.

He would not decide such a thing for her, however. He would not chain her. They were both agreed on that much at least.

He would simply have to wait and see. And for Nightbird – for Nightbird's happiness – he could be as patient as a great wyrm.


	12. Tooth and Nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chambui lies stricken by snake bite.  
> Does she have the will to live? To fight, tooth and nail, for another day?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt was "tooth and nail" and well here we are

The vipers of the foothills were not often seen – horses would not abide a snake in their midst, and the snakes, feeling the vibrations of many hooves, generally avoided the paths that the herds took.

But not always.

The winter had been mild, and the spring was early and warm and damp. The snakes had spawned in far greater numbers than usual, and scattered across the hills – young ones searching out new territories, older creatures seeking out mates, and all of it taking place with a certain serpentine frenzy not seen for five generations among the Noykin.

So many snakes meant that campsites had to be combed over three times, boots checked over and over, babies strung in hammocks far above the ground. It meant constant vigilance, among horse and man alike, as the snakes would strike out at anything that startled them.

Chambui had been there, when her three year old cousin stumbled into a bush. She had heard the rattle, seen the snake, and had flung herself without hesitation between the serpent and the child. She had had no way to avoid the strike. The fangs had sunk deep into the meat of her shoulder.

Her cousin's screams had brought others, and Chambui had been carried back to the camp, already senseless from the pain and the poison.

The tribe's healers knew what to do, and they bent their every effort to help the girl, but the viper's venom was pernicious – in fact it was highly sought after as an ingredient in one of the nastiest arrow poisons known among the tribes.

They did all they could, and then they waited; for the venom was only the first of their worries.

Vipers also had filthy mouths. Their fangs could do great harm even without a drop of venom: infection was frequently seen in even the most minor of bites.

Chambui's mother sat beside her child, singing softly, her fingers ceaselessly stroking the dark hair. Chambui lay on her side, her scales dulling, her eyes half open as she breathed slowly. She had not eaten for three days. Fever gripped her, and she barely responded to anything. The bite wound itself was yet inflamed, swollen and angry red. The healers checked her, day after day, always muttering weak words of comfort as they left again. “The infection is not yet in her blood. She may pull through.”

Her mouth moved, not quite whispering, and her mother sang a little louder, knowing that another fit was coming. She knew not what hellish visions plagued her daughter's mind in the throes of her fever. She knew only that her song might bring her baby back to her.

Inside her mind, Chambui was at war.

She did not recognize the people, the place. None of them were of _her_ people, not a single familiar face – and yet she trusted them, she knew somehow they were comrades and worthy to guard her back. White hair and pale skin, dark hair and strange features, furry tails and ears – they were so wildly varied she could barely comprehend it. None of her mother's tales had mentioned what the outsiders really looked like, and so she had assumed they all looked much like the Domans that often visited Reunion...

And their surroundings were equally strange – the sky seemed made of fire and smoke, no hint of sun or cooling breeze or blessed stars, and everywhere there was wreckage, twisted metal that stank horribly. Strange metal creatures, and masked soldiers, came at them again and again in waves. There had been no rest, no rest at all, for so long that Chambui marveled that she had not simply fallen to the ground where she stood. There was no place for a horse to maneuver, and so she was on foot among her strange allies, in this strange place, fighting she knew not why.

But all of that mattered little and less, for there were enemies upon them once more. She readied her spear and set her feet, hearing again the ghoulish howls. Lupin – the wolf-men of Doma – charged around a corner and headed straight for the knot of a dozen people who blocked the access into another area.

“Steady,” warned the tall man in blue. His sword – nothing like anything seen on the Steppe, but an effective weapon in the capable hands which wielded it – flashed once as he lifted it. The Lupin came closer, teeth gnashing as they raised their swords. Closer. _Closer_ –

“ _NOW!_ ”

From behind Chambui and the others leaped seven men in spiky armor. She had learned by now, they called themselves “dragoons,” and they were a force to be reckoned with. They fell upon the Lupin like levin-bolts of steel, and even as their strike scattered the wolf-men's charge, the man in blue shouted a wordless challenge and forged forward into the fray.

Chambui was right there, stabbing and blocking, doing her best. Her heart pounded and her mouth was dry, her skin felt tight and she was terribly frightened. She was no Dotharl to take pleasure in such violence, but somehow she found herself whirling and leaping back just as if she had always known the dance of blade and warrior. Not for the first time she wondered what on earth was happening.

She understood that this was not quite real. She knew she had been bitten by the snake. She hoped her cousin had escaped unharmed. She knew, in a vague way, that she was in fact lying down somewhere, and someone was with her. But she saw none of it, it was less than a dream to her compared to the visceral immediacy of – _whatever_ this was.

A strike got through her guard and sliced across her shoulder, and she cried out and went to one knee. The one that had struck her gave a bark of laughter and advanced. His tongue was very red as it passed over his long white teeth. “Delicious,” he growled, and lifted his sword. Chambui's eyes watered as she tried to lift her spear to block him.

“ _Oh, no you bloody well don't!_ ” Something – someone – leaped past her, so close the other's clothing fluttered against Chambui's cheek for an instant, and there was a flash of steel and a burst of flame. The Lupin fell back, eyes wide with surprise in death, and the one who had saved Chambui turned to face her.

“All right, then?” Blue eyes and white hair – a woman as small in stature as Chambui herself – a long thin blade in one hand and a strange crimson bauble floating above her other palm. Chambui nodded, mutely, then winced as her shoulder flared in pain.

“Ah, right. Here.” The sword was sheathed with the same swift motion as any samurai, and the now empty hand hovered over Chambui's shoulder. A white glow – a sense of warmth – and the pain receded. “That should hold you until after the battle.”

“Th-thank you.”

The Lupin were falling back now, and the man in blue spared a glance back towards Chambui and the white haired woman. “She's here. Get her to the cliff. _Move!_ ”

“Aye!” The white haired woman looked to Chambui. “Come on. We'll need all the help we can get!”

Startled, Chambui nodded and followed after the woman as she dashed away, along the edge of the path. She saw after a moment that the two of them were angling to meet up with others – but the one in the front of the group was the only one that made an impression.

Tall – ridiculously tall, taller even than Buto the smith – and pale, and with hair the color of a sunset before a storm – muscles on muscles – and an axe bigger than Chambui was – what goddess of battle was this?

“Good, you're here.” The woman's eyes were green as summer grass, and flickered over Chambui before returning to the white haired woman. “Let's go. They're not going to wait on us.”

“Right.”

And so Chambui found herself swept up in the group, fighting little pockets of soldiers here and there, dodging fire and strange creatures, until at last – an open place – a great cliff!

Chambui stopped and stared. The whole world seemed made of war and fire and smoke. There was nothing but devastation as far as her eyes could see. She whimpered in her throat a little. What _was_ this place? She did not belong here!

_Crack!_

Chambui started as something struck the ground nearby, plowing up a little explosion of dirt.

“Shit!” The tall red haired woman spat. “Snipers, everybody get _down_ – !”

Chambui did not quite know how she knew: but the same instinct that had moved her body to save her cousin moved her now. She leaped, almost as if to catch the big woman in a tackle – green eyes widened as they met hers –

_Crack! Crack!_

Chambui fell to the ground, her spear lost, her breath aching in her chest. It felt as if she had been punched by a giant's fists. She gasped for air, and felt warmth that should not be there on her back and her chest.

“We will see to her,” a voice spoke, “there is no time – go, damn you! Go!”

“Damn it – ” Chambui saw booted feet fleeing, saw the white haired woman right behind the other – they leaped over the edge of the cliff and were gone.

“Now, let's have a look.”

“Now, let's have a look,” the healer said, and unwrapped the bandages.

Red lines seemed to crawl outward from the wound. Chambui whimpered.

“Not good, not good at all,” tutted the healer. “Here, help me sit her up – hold her – don't let her struggle.” A small bottle was opened, the healer held Chambui's jaw and poured the potion down her throat, as if the girl were simply a sick foal. Chambui did not resist, swallowed reflexively, and then moaned.

“Into the sunlight with her. This bedding must all be changed anyway.” To the other two healers, the older woman spoke next: “Get her ready. We're going to have to drain it, clean it all over again, and re-dress the wound. If in the next few hours...”

Chambui shifted, restless, hands clenching and opening. Her mutters sounded distressed, but nothing she said made any sense.

“You must fight this,” her mother whispered as she settled her daughter where the healers indicated. The afternoon sun shone down on the girl, laying bare how sick she looked.

Her mother bent her head and began to pray as she had never prayed before.

“She's not going to make it.”

“Hush. Let me look...” Hands were on her, tugging her clothes, baring her, and she cried out, breathless with pain. Why did it hurt _so much?_

A hiss, and a choked off curse from the second voice, and then: “Leave me with her.”

Chambui's eyes were watering, but when the face came into her view, she recognized at once – someone of her own kind, someone in the garb of Doma – someone who while still a stranger might _understand_.

“Please,” she gasped, “help me – ”

“You have been shot.” The eyes were kind, the scales as pale as her own, the hair as dark. “Tell me your name, child.”

“Ch-Chambui, of Noykin.”

“Ah, of the horse-peoples. You have done a very noble thing, Chambui. Your action saved the Warrior of Light. Not many can say they have done such a thing.”

“I d-d-don't understand.”

“Do not worry about it. Now. I am going to hurt you. You must bear with it and not move. Can you do that?”

Chambui whimpered again, fear making the pain worse for an instant. “I will try.”

There was no other warning. The pain was excruciating, and she could feel something being removed from her flesh, could feel something else being pressed hard against the wound left behind, could feel her blood flowing and flowing.

“ _Ai!_ ”

“The bullets are removed. Now it is only up to you.”

Chambui stared into those eyes, kind and yet relentless. “Me?”

“Do you have the will to live? The will to endure the pain, overcome the fear? None would blame you if you should choose to rest. But only the gods can say whose life might be changed if you do not. The Warrior of Light is not the only one whose actions change the world, after all.”

“Who _are_ you?”

“I am not anyone you know, nor yet am I who I appear to be. But who I am does not matter, not here and not now. What matters is you – Chambui – who _you_ are.”

“I am a daughter of the Steppe,” Chambui began, but the other held up her hand.

“Are you strong enough to live?”

“I...”

“Will you _fight_ , tooth and nail, for every day from now until your last breath? Or will you rest and return to the earth, unmarked and unremembered?”

Chambui shook all over.

“The wound is cleansed. There is nothing more that we can do. It is up to her now.”

“She is strong. She can make it. She _can_.”

“As you say.”

“You are strong of body. But does the strength of your will match that of your youth?”

“I don't...know...”

The world had faded away. There was only the two of them, the ground, the cliff, and the empty sky beyond, a sky no longer filled with smoke and fire, but with stars – more stars than Chambui had ever seen in her life.

“Do you go into the night, or do you fight, and live, and face into the dawn?”

“The dawn...” Chambui's breath caught. “The _dawn_. I want to live. _I want to live!_ ”

“Then, my sweet child,” the woman vanished, but her voice echoed. “ _ **Get up**_.”

Gasping in pain, staggering with weakness, Chambui nonetheless clambered to her feet.

There was a glow over the edge of the cliff.

 _Sunrise_.

She turned her head, hearing a sound she knew like her own heartbeat. Hooves on dirt.

A black mare paced toward her, and her neck arched, an invitation to mount.

Stumbling, Chambui made her way to the horse, and somehow managed to climb up. She could feel her body chilling. She knotted her hands in the long black mane.

“Take me home.”

The horse nodded, and then they were galloping.

The sun rose above the edge of the cliff, and the black mare _leaped_ –

Chambui's eyes opened and she sat up with a cry. She stared around her, breath heaving, while the healers and her mother stared back at her for a long moment.

Grass. Sunlight. The smell of horses and camp fires and home.

Her mother.

The girl flung her arms around her mother, weeping weakly. “I am _not dead_ ,” she babbled, her words slurred, almost sounding drunk. “I will fight...I will fight and _fight_ and I _will not go_...!”

“Sh, sh, sh, my precious one, my beloved, my child, sh, sh.”

“Well. A most remarkable recovery. We will come back in a little time. Do not let her over-exert herself.”

Mother and child held each other, tears of joy and relief mingling, rocking together in mutual comfort.

Another day of life. Another fight won.

But not the last.


	13. Extortion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing how little privacy the Warrior of Light has, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was a free form day of sorts and this was my random word  
> WARNING - rape and suicide mentions in here, please be aware
> 
> There are Shadowbringers spoilers here, sort of? Also this references a fic of mine titled "Temporary Insanity."

_It's astonishing how little privacy I have in my so-called private quarters._

Emet-Selch had simply appeared in the middle of my suite just a moment ago. I had been about to go get a shower – the dust of Amh Araeng's highlands was far worse than the sand around Journey's End. I was less itchy now, but I wanted a good scrub.

Now I just stood there, with my robe over one arm, barefoot, my axe across the room from me, and glared at him. “What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“Why, I came to check in on my favorite hero, of course.”

“No, you came to see if I've turned into a monster yet. I haven't. Go away.”

“Now now now,” he raised his eyebrows and spread his hands, “You wound me, oh mighty warrior. I have every hope that you will succeed in containing all that Light. Though I admit I do perceive a certain...fragility about you.”

“I'm really not up for you and your games right now. You're not half as cute as you think you are.” I turned my shoulder to him.

“Such a rude reception. But,” he sighed theatrically, “perhaps I should not expect better from barbarians.”

“Oh, you want me to ask you nicely? Okay.” I shot him a very fake smile. “Please, mister Ascian, pretty please...go fuck yourself.”

“Such vulgarity!” Then he laughed. “I am not shocked, however. And I notice you do not move for your weapon.”

“You aren't worth the effort of hitting you. Not that I'm dumb enough to think you'd stand still for it. You'd just slip off into your little shadow portal, wouldn't you, Ascian? Like any other serpent, you'd rather slither off and live another day.”

“You sneer at me, and yet I know what sort of monster _you_ are, hero.”

“Did you come here to indulge in name calling? Rather childish of you, isn't it?”

“I speak of facts. I _know_ what you did to that engineer.”

I felt my face going pale, but I forced myself to be still. The Ascian half smiled.

“I have looked into your sordid past, and I know exactly how much of a monster you really are. Practically a bitch in heat for most any man that lays hands on you, wholly incapable of fidelity. Have you seduced everyone in the Crystarium yet, hero?”

“Coming from a man who is personally responsible for millions of deaths, and looks forward to causing millions more? I really don't give a shit about your judgment of my character.”

“Ah, but what would your precious friends think, if _they_ knew what sort of harlot you've been?”

My blood turned to ice. But I affected a casual pose, one hand on my hip, tilting my head a little. “What profit is there to _you_ in telling them? Even assuming they'd believe you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is your faith in them so unshakable?” He stepped closer to me, and his smile was poisonous. “Do you really believe they would stand by your side, and continue to help you, if they knew what a vile creature you are at heart?”

It took everything I had not to shiver outwardly. _How did he find out? How does he know how much I hate myself for what I did that day?_

“They have known me for far longer than you have,” I managed. “They have stood by me through the worst your kind can throw at us.”

“The worst?” He laughed, a charming sound, an inviting sound. “You haven't seen the _worst_ we can throw at you, hero.”

“If you Ascians were so powerful as all that, we wouldn't be standing here talking,” I retorted. “If you crave my fear, you're going to remain disappointed.”

His laughter faded, and he eyed me for a moment, his lips twisting. “I _crave_ nothing you could ever offer.”

“Liar.” I turned my back on him and moved towards the steps that led into the “bedroom” part of my room. “If you truly believed your own bullshit, that we aren't even really alive, you would never have offered your hand in so-called cooperation. You wouldn't bother talking to us. The physician does not converse with the disease he wishes to excise.”

I turned back and held in a gasp to find him mere inches away from me. I turned my start into a glare, directly into those golden eyes. “So what is it you _really_ want from me, Ascian?”

He stepped closer, forcing me to move back. My shoulder bumped into the partition that helped mark off the central area, stopping my retreat. Emet-Selch leaned in, the fur of his coat brushing against my skin. He was so close I could feel his breath against my cheek, so close I could smell him.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice suddenly deep, caressing, _intimate_. “Just perhaps, hero, it _is_ true that I crave you. Perhaps I lust not for your fear, but for your body...or your soul. Perhaps your prurient nature pleases me.”

“No.” I raised my hands to push him back.

He didn't move. I shoved harder, frowning, and I might as well have been trying to force the wall to move.

His smile was sharp as he lifted one gloved hand. “Would you like to see the _worst_ I can throw at you?” he whispered. In his fingers was an all too familiar shape, and I could see the label. Another one of Nero's gods-damned recordings of me.

I turned my head away, bile rising in my throat. I clenched my jaw tight to keep silent.

“I can show each of the Scions this one little scene,” he murmured. “Or you can accept the inevitable, and give me what I want.”

 _He wants to torture me, the sick bastard_. I was afraid, and yet somehow the thought hardened my resolve. _If he's going to hurt me, I'm not giving him the satisfaction of hearing me cry._

He laughed, low and lover like. I couldn't stop the shudder that ran through me.

Then I felt his aether.

I sucked in a breath and shut my eyes, concentrating as hard as I could, wrapping my own aether around me tightly, in layer after hard layer. I had never been more grateful for Vidofnir's lessons. I hid my terror and my rage from him, shielding away anything he could grab at and hold.

His energy felt like claws dragging across my skin, and I twisted, my body instinctively trying to get away.

“Such a thin shell,” he whispered. “Shall I break you open and spill you out, hero?”

Inside, I whimpered. I felt suddenly tiny and helpless and afraid. But I kept my face still, and tried to control my breathing, tried to ignore the warmth of him, the scent of him.

His hair brushed my cheek as he leaned even closer. It was silken, and carried a scent all its own. I trembled when his lips settled over the place where my pulse fluttered. Aymeric kissed me that way. To feel this _enemy_ do the same was obscene.

A tear ran down my cheek, and a tiny sound escaped my lips.

“Ah,” he sighed, his breath stirring my hair. “I shall go to each of them in turn. I will tell them all the things _you don't want them to know_. I will detail your escapades to each and every one of your precious Scions, and they will turn away from you in disgust.” His voice was warm, lilting, almost kind. “Or...will you grant me some few of these sweet tears to appease me?”

My heart twisted in my chest and my stomach felt sick. But rage burned back the fear, enough for me to answer in a steady voice.

“Do as you will.” I kept my eyes closed, the better to concentrate on keeping my voice under control. “You shall have little joy of me.” My hand fumbled and finally found the tiny knife hidden near my hip, the only weapon I still had on me, small and sharp.

“Ah, so you _are_ aware that you cannot prevent me,” he chuckled, shifting his weight to lean one hand on the partition beside my head. “I will take what I want from you, and you can't help but give in to me.”

I raised my arm, and he moved back, instinctively, avoiding the knife blade.

But I wasn't going for him. I set the thin steel against my own throat, and opened my eyes to meet his. I was trembling violently now, but I fixed my gaze on him, seeing the shock in those golden eyes.

“I can take myself away from you with a single slice.” My tone was as icy as my blood now.

His mouth dropped open, and I pressed the blade a little harder, feeling a few beads of blood welling up.

“I would sooner die than let you _touch_ me, you son of a bitch.”

Now it was his turn to go pale. He stepped back, beyond arm's length.

“You're mad,” he told me, his voice flat. “Absolutely insane.”

“This is not news to me,” I answered. “And it shouldn't surprise you if you had _really_ researched my past, instead of just looking for something to masturbate to.”

He flinched.

“ _Get out_ ,” I gritted my teeth. “I'm tired of your bullshit, Ascian.”

He didn't answer, simply vanished.

I dropped my hand, and let the knife fall to the floor with a clatter as I sank to my knees. I buried my face in my hands and shook all over.

There was a tap on the door.

“Berylla?” Alisaie called. “You're not asleep yet, are you?”

I managed to speak. “No. Come in.”

She opened the door and stepped inside, her brother right behind her. But whatever she had been about to say was instantly forgotten when she saw the knife on the floor.

Alphinaud was beside me even as Alisaie demanded, “Berylla! What happened?”

I hugged myself. “It's...complicated.” I looked up at her. “Could you please get the others? Not Ryne but...I would rather only explain this once.”

Her eyes held mine and she frowned, but nodded. “All right.”

She hurried out, leaving Alphinaud on one knee beside me, his hand on my shoulder.

“Your neck,” he murmured.

I tilted my head, showing him the little cut. “It's nothing. I was...making a point. To the Ascian.”

I felt his magic soothe the sting, and knew the shallow slice was closed over.

“Did he hurt you?”

I shivered, convulsively, and he put his arm around my shoulders.

I buried my face in my hands and leaned into him. As I shook, not quite weeping, he rubbed his palm across my back.

By the time Alisaie returned with the others in tow, I had regained a little composure and even managed to get off the floor and sit on the bench instead.

Once the door was shut, I looked around at all of them.

“Emet-Selch was here,” I said quietly. “He was...I'm not really sure what he was trying to do. Maybe he just wanted to rattle me. I don't know.”

“Did he harm you?” Y'Shtola asked, her tone dangerous.

“I did this to myself,” I said, with a gesture at the blood on my neck. “I was...a little desperate.”

“What did he say?” Alisaie asked.

“A lot of things,” I sighed. “But the important one right now is that he can, and has, spied on me. Maybe not just me...” I shook my head. “I have to tell you all something. Right now. Before he does.”

Y'Shtola's silver eyes widened. I looked right at her. “I'm sorry, Shtola. I would have carried this to my grave if I could have, but I have to tell them.”

She turned away. “Make it quick then.”

I glanced around at the others. They all looked mystified, as well they might. I took a deep, shaky breath.

“He found out about something I did. A long time ago...around the time Alphinaud was first assembling the Crystal Braves. There was an...incident. I was drunk, and I...accidentally hurt Y'Shtola.” I swallowed hard. “Nero was there as well – I had caught him snooping around the Toll. But I,” my breath caught and I put my hand in my hair, knotting it around my fingers. “I raped him.”

I didn't look at their faces, but the shock was obvious in their postures, in their hands clenching into fists. I heard Alphinaud's gasp and shut my eyes as he sat up straight, taking his arm away.

“I was drunk,” I repeated. “But that's not an excuse. Nero used what I did against me, he...blackmailed me for a while. He made me do things...that I don't want to talk about. He didn't stop until just before the Tower was sealed.”

Y'Shtola had turned around as I spoke, her expression stormy. “And you say the Ascian knows about this?”

“He threatened to tell you the _details_. Each of you.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I learned my lesson from back then. I had to tell you all, now, myself. It's the only way to remove the power he thinks he can hold over me.”

They were all silent, and I leaned my elbows on my knees and hung my head.

“I wouldn't blame any of you for thinking a lot less of me,” I told them. “I can keep in communication some other way. I can recruit some folks to give me a hand in the fighting. You need not lay eyes on me if you...”

Alisaie interrupted me, speaking slowly. “Have you learned _nothing_ about us? Do you really think we're going to abandon you because of some drunken mistake from years ago?”

“Y-yes.” I swallowed hard. “Doesn't matter that it was a long time ago. Or that I was drunk. At the very least you have to question if I can be trusted, because I kept such a secret.”

I sat up, scrubbing at my face. “I'll set up some sort of way to get messages to you all...”

Thancred spoke. “Shut up, Seahawk.”

I looked at him. He looked furious, and I squared my shoulders, ready to accept the harsh words he no doubt had for me.

But he stepped forward and set his hand on my shoulder. “You're an idiot, but you're also my friend. I'm not about to hold something that old and that _stupid_ against you.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Yes, you made mistakes. What point in dwelling on them now? We have a job to do, and old mistakes are nothing but a distraction from that job.”

Urianger nodded, his eyes sad. “Thou needst not take on guilt anew. There will blood on all our hands ere long, and regrets aplenty.”

Y'Shtola grimaced at me. “Indeed. I would thank you to keep your mind on the goals we have in front of us. We cannot afford to falter.”

I looked among the three of them, unable to speak. Each of them nodded once more, then left the room.

My eyes drifted to Alisaie and I bit my lip. She looked angrier than Thancred had.

“If I catch that Ascian here again, I'll beat him black and blue,” she growled. “Coming here and hurting you that way, after all his pretty words that he wouldn't interfere with us.”

My eyes stung. I bent my head again, hugging myself.

She came to sit beside me, and Alphinaud shifted closer.

Both of them set their arms around me and leaned in.

“We're never leaving your side,” Alisaie said, her voice softer now.

I sniffled, trying to hold back. I didn't want to cry, not again. I was so _tired_ of crying.

Alphinaud's head leaned against mine, so close I could hear his whisper. “Together, or not at all.”

They held me, and let me weep.


	14. A Musical Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird, Felina, Pale, and Glass Willow enjoy a quiet evening for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt was "part"  
> and being a music nerd I immediately thought about part singing  
> So the beautiful [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) agreed to collab with me on this one!

La Noscea was warm, even at night. They barely needed the little campfire, but Nightbird had insisted on it because, as she’d tartly told Pale while building it up, “I prefer to be able to see my instrument.”

Even Glass Willow had a small, flat, round drum. The only one without something musical in hand was himself. But the feeling among the four of them was quiet, comfortable - enough so that he didn’t mind.

The scenery around them didn’t hurt either. The moon was half way down the sky, and the stars were brighter here than he had ever seen them. They seemed somehow closer, but maybe that was just an illusion because of their position up on the heights above the town of Wineport. From here, one could see the oddly glowing plants of the eastern jungles - weird, flying flowers that glowed red and pale blue - but even the sounds from the town seemed far away. The white stones of the wall reflected some of the firelight, and the night breeze was just enough to be pleasant. It all combined into something that made all four of them feel peaceful for once.

Pale grabbed his bedroll to spread out on the ground before the fire as Felina unstrapped the guitar case from her chocobo. He leaned close. “Do you guys do this often?”

Felina smiled. “We’re known to indulge on occasion. You’ve never heard Nightbird sing, have you?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never heard you sing either for that matter.”

Her cheeks grew warm and she cleared her throat. “I’m not much of a vocalist. Nightbird’s the expert. She’s trained in the Conservatory in Gridania, after all. I’ve only ever sang casually…” She flipped open the case, and carefully retrieved her guitar. She ran a hand over the golden wood with its shell inlay and smiled. “She’s really great. You’ll see.”

Pale said nothing, instead settling down to watch the women set up. Felina put the guitar strap around her shoulder and began to tune, fiddling with the pegs until she was pleased with the sound. Nightbird did the same with her strange double-stringed instrument while Glass Willow beat out a test rhythm with her fingers.

As Nightbird finished tuning up, she began to hum, then to softly sing - not real words, simply sounds, and after a moment Pale realized she was warming up her voice. Tavern singers didn’t do such a thing. Hearing the way she sang, he understood that Nightbird was certainly no tavern minstrel.

Her voice was, to be honest, incredible. He had heard fine singing before, though he was certainly not going to tell anyone about it. Nightbird was better than the best he’d ever heard back home.

Not long after Nightbird started to warm up, Felina joined in. Her voice was different - but not at all unpleasant - and he could hear that she had not benefited from the kind of rigorous training Nightbird had. But he could find no flaw in the sound, and even just the two of them harmonizing on scales and arpeggios was really quite nice.

Then, Nightbird cocked her head at her friend, and said, “So. You pick the first song.”

“Ahhh…” Felina looked a little like she’d been put on the spot. “I suppose… White Mage’s Repose, since you’re the white mage here? It’ll be perfect for your voice.”

Nightbird smiled. “All right.”

She bent her head and began to pluck a tune. Within a few beats, Felina and Glass Willow joined in. When the ghostly sound of an ocarina came seemingly out of nowhere, Pale started just a little. Then he saw Nightbird smile over at him, a reassuring smile rather than a mocking one, and understood that she had - somehow or other - created the illusion of another instrument. The tune was quiet in a meditative way, wandering strangely in a mode he had never heard before. It was easy to shut his eyes and just listen.

Nightbird began to sing, and it was clear after a bit that this was a piece with verses, as she finished out a set of lines and then Felina took up the melody. Her voice started out quiet wavering a bit as she sang. Before long though, she seemed to relax, and she closed her eyes as her fingers strummed the guitar. Her voice rose, stronger but with a grace Pale found surprising. She was clearly untrained, but there was something about her voice that made him feel the music, like the song was alive on her tongue.

He opened his eyes to watch her and found the sight of her given over to the song as captivating as any fine performance he’d ever seen.

_"My love lies_

_'Neath frozen skies_

_And waits in sweet_

_Repose for me."_

Nightbird took over again, and now Felina harmonized once more as the song spoke of birds’ wings and spring. The song took on a new feeling, and by the time the two of them brought the tune to a close, all four of them were smiling. There was a sense of belonging, now, as if somehow, enjoying a song together had bound the four of them, just a thread of commonality but more than had been there before. Nightbird looked at Pale and smiled wider, and he knew that she had hoped for exactly this feeling.

Pale clapped, the single audience member at their little outdoor performance. “That was beautiful.” His eyes seemed to drift over Felina as he spoke that last word. 

Felina’s cheeks pinked only enough for Nightbird and Glass to notice the change in their friend. Glass grinned over at her, and Felina gave her a look as if to tell her to keep whatever she might want to say to herself.

“Would you like to request a song, Pale?” she asked. “I’m sure we must know at least one or two songs in common.”

The elezen brought his fist to his chin as he pondered. “Do you happen to know The Ballad of Saint Coinach?”

Glass Willow’s grin widened. “Ohhh… a romantic song? Who knew Pale here was such a softie?”

Pale leaned back against his makeshift seat, crossing his arms in defiance. “What can I say? I like the song.”

Nightbird laughed quietly. “It’s a very nice song.” She set her fingers to her strings, and began.

Pale sat back and watched quietly as the women played. Perhaps this assignment wasn’t so bad after all. He smiled. He might even enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics mentioned herein are from:
> 
> https://www.lyrics.com/track/8156350/Townes+Van+Zandt/Snow+Don%27t+Fall
> 
> Though we had no particular tune in mind, these words seemed to fit well.


	15. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird's grief causes pain to more than just herself. But family is bigger than blood, and she is not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY BIG CONTENT WARNING!!!!!  
> There's a lot of sadness, miscarriage, pain, and brief suicidal thoughts in this passage. It's really rough, so please be aware if you choose to read. A very rough summary for those who choose NOT to read: Nightbird was pregnant, and by the end of this she's not. Ouch.

The path to Revenant's Toll was not the most widely traveled, and each bump in the road sent a spark of anxiety through Felina. They’d wrapped Nightbird up in blankets like some sort of priceless urn. She shook the thought from her head. Not an urn. She swallowed down the lump in her throat. Pale cradled Nightbird’s head in his lap as Felina held her hand.

Nightbird for her part merely whimpered as she slept, still under the effects of the sedative the healer had given her. Felina had been given more vials in case they were needed. The healer believed the concoction should wear off about the time they reached the Toll. Felina hoped it would last at least long enough to get her to a proper room.

“Not far now.” Pale whispered.

Felina looked up to see the settlement on the horizon, and dared to breathe a sigh of relief.

*

The rooms were small, but would fare well enough for their needs. Felina had made arrangements for Rowena for a pair of rooms for the month. If they still needed them after that time, they would negotiate for additional time, but for the moment, Pale and Felina had contracts for some light work around the Toll in exchange for a break in the price of the rooms.

Nightbird was settled in bed, still sleeping. The sedative must have been plenty for her small frame. Felina brushed a bit of hair out of her friend’s eyes. “Everything’s going to be okay, Nightbird. We’ll be here.”

Pale appeared in the doorway. “I’ve spoken with Y'Shtola. She’ll be here soon to take a look at her.”

Felina nodded. “Thank you.” She and Y'Shtola never exactly got along, but she was one of the best healers they knew, and for once she was thankful when the white-haired Miqote stepped into the room.

Y'Shtola set her hands on her hips for a moment as she gazed at the dark haired figure in the bed. “Keles did not inform me as to the exact nature of the problem here. Elaborate, if you please.”

Felina’s mouth pressed into a hard line, but she cleared her throat and answered. “She’s expecting, Y'Shtola It was G’raha Tia’s, and when that tower closed up with him inside…” She swallowed remembering the state they’d found their friend in. “She tried to get inside, but as you know, that’s impossible. I think she knew that, but still. She’s hurt and grieving, and they think she and her little one might be…” She didn’t say anything further.

“I see.” The conjurer moved close and sat on the edge of the bed, and held her hands over Nightbird’s still form. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, Y’Shtola straightened. Her eyes were sad as she stood back up.

“There is nothing I can do for her. You will simply have to watch over her. However, if there is any change - most especially if she shows signs of bleeding - summon me at once.”

She headed for the door, but paused as she opened it. She did not look back. Her voice was soft. “For what it may be worth, she has my condolences. And my prayers.”

“Thank you, Y'Shtola She will not want for company. Not while we’re here.”

As the conjurer closed the door, Pale walked up to put his hands on Felina’s hunched shoulders. “You’re exhausted. Let me take first watch.”

Felina shook her head. “I’m fine. I can stay with her.”

Pale squeezed her shoulders. “One hour. Then I’m sending you to your rest.”

She gave a slight nod, and the Elezen stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, Nightbird.”

*

It was dark. She didn’t know where she was, only that she was alone. Alone as she had never been in her life before. She whimpered and shivered, and tried to open her eyes. “R-Raha…?”

But before she had even finished saying his name she remembered, and her breath caught as the pain stabbed through her once more. Not just the pain of her breaking heart - her whole body ached as if she had been beaten. Her aether felt drained. She couldn’t recall what she had done, where she had been - only that she had lost him, lost the only man she would ever love, lost the father of her unborn kits…

Hysterical tears poured down her cheeks as she shook all over, but she did not sob. She couldn’t. It hurt too much to even cry properly.

“Nightbird? Nightbird, I’m here. Try to be still if you can. Are you in pain?”

“F-F-Felina…? Why...where…”

Felina squeezed her hand. “We’re in Revenant’s Toll at an inn. We didn’t think you needed to stay in a tent in your condition. But we’re here. Pale’s right down the hall.”

“He left me...w-why did he leave me, Felina?” Nightbird’s voice was broken, the voice of a child, lost and afraid.

“I don’t know. I mean, I know what he thought he was doing but…” Felina’s own voice grew thick in the presence of her friend’s grief. “I don’t think he would have done it if he thought there was any other way.”

Nightbird didn’t answer. She clutched Felina’s hand, and her skin was cold. “D-d-don’t...don’t leave me...p-p-please. I can’t...I can’t bear to be alone. Not...now.”

Felina covered her friend’s hand with her own. “Never. I’ll never let you be alone. I promise. I’ll stay with you no matter what.”

Nightbird shuddered once, and then lay still. Her eyes closed, though tears still flowed from beneath the lids, and her hand on Felina’s did not relax. But she seemed to barely even breathe for a moment, passing from wakefulness into exhausted sleep instantly.

*

For the next couple of days, a strange kind of routine formed. Felina would sit with Nightbird, or Pale would. Nightbird did not speak, except to whisper, and then only in answer to questions. She moved when they asked her to, would sit up and eat, would take care of necessary ablutions if she was reminded. She seemed almost asleep even when her eyes were open, and the tears were never far away.

But every time she lay back down, every time she closed her eyes, she clutched their hands and begged them not to leave her.

Midnight. Pale was taking his turn of watching over her. Felina was in the next room, deeply asleep, worn out from worry and vigilance. Nightbird was moaning in her sleep, curling up oddly, and he was beginning to worry when she opened her eyes and said, in a clear voice, “Help me.”

And then she screamed.

“Nightbird!” His heart was in his throat. He’d never seen anyone in such a state, much less a friend. She had been in a sort of walking sleep for so long to see her so violently awake and in agony… Something was wrong. Very wrong. She kicked and writhed. “Nightbird!” The blankets fell to the floor to reveal a bed red with blood. “Fury. Hang on, Nightbird! I’m going to get help!”

He ran for the door, flinging it open and charging down the hall past the room where Felina slept in exhausted, troubled sleep.

*

Everything had been strangely muted for the past hours - days, perhaps? She knew she was losing time, her mind would go blank and then the light would have changed as if in an instant.

She knew she was frightening her friends. But their fear seemed far away. Everything seemed far away, even her own body. Nothing was quite real, as if perhaps this was all just a terrible dream, and she would wake up presently, snuggled against her beloved, warm and safe and all would be right in the world again.

The terms her healing trainers would have used floated across her mind from time to time.

_Dissociation. Shock_.

Her aether was not re-balancing as it ought. She could _feel_ it. But she could not bring herself to care. Caring about her kits, or even her own health, meant returning to herself, and she _did not want_ to do that. She wanted to stay in this quiet place inside her own mind, this place where nothing hurt, nothing changed. This place, where Raha was _not gone_.

But reality came crashing in on her quiet place, and the world was made of pain.

She had felt it beginning, even asleep, and she had curled around the ball of growing agony. Let it happen. Let the blood flow, until she was empty. What point in trying to stop it, when he was as good as dead?

But something in her soul flared bright, and her body responded. The will to live, the will to fight, the stubborn streak that had kept her alive and largely sane through the tortures of her childhood - the very same strength that made her what she was - surged to the fore. Her grief was knocked aside like a fragile bulwark in the path of a tidal wave, as agony seared through her.

Her eyes opened. “Help me.”

The pain took her, and instinct raged. She screamed, and kicked free of the blankets covering her. She heard a voice, heard a door opening and footsteps running, but none of it had meaning. She rolled off the bed and onto the floor, sprawling, her bed-gown sodden with scarlet. Animal instinct put her on her hands and knees as muscles spasmed. Her limbs shook and she retched, though nothing came up but bitter bile.

Feet running, again, and curses. Hands on her, and she yowled and tried to bite, half mad with the panicked agony that rampaged through her.

“ _Hold her_ , damn your eyes.”

Then, aether - aether like an icy wind off the mountains, cool and blue-white, numbing. And with that aether, a voice, whispering deep in her mind.

_Be still, be still, and it will soon be over. Don’t fight it, hold on to me. Live!_

More footsteps, more running, more hands - would they not leave off?! Was she not tormented enough without being manhandled?! She pushed at them all, but nothing changed. She felt herself lifted up, arms holding her body, hands holding her hands, more hands on her belly as she thrashed weakly.

Her belly heaved and ached, and she would have screamed again if only she had breath for it.

Then yet another presence, this one somehow darker. Someone not in the room with the others but nonetheless close by, and someone who knew her.

_Child, be still. They are trying to help_.

_Marius?_

The strange, dark aether that signified her mentor in her mind wrapped around her, coiling like a great dragon, and what the healing hands upon her belly could not do for her, Marius did: all in an instant the fear was pushed away. It was not gone: her heart hammered, her eyes wept, her breathing was no less labored. The pain was not gone. The grief was not gone.

But she was held within it and just a little apart from it, her soul protected for this short time.

She perceived her own body as if from across the room. The ones holding her were indistinct shapes of differing colors: silver-white shot through with shadowy green, pouring aether into her; brilliant scarlet red streaked with every color of the summer sky clinging to one hand, and winter sunrise grasping the other. And her own...dark purple, shot through with black and red. The colors faltered, muddied together, and seemed faded. Within her colors, a pair of indistinct blobs.

She knew somehow that they had been two tiny, silver flames. But now they were less than an echo of light, no more than the smear of color left on the inside of the eyelid after glancing at a candle.

“Shit! She’s not breathing!”

_Marius. I don’t want to_.

_Too bad. Your tasks remain unfinished, and your Mother has need of you. It is not your time. This is a tragedy, and you are right to grieve. But you cannot give up, and you know that_.

_Have you no mercy?_

_I have no choice. And neither do you, not this time. Live, Nightbird._ _ **Breathe**_.

*

Nightbird lay, her skin ashen, eyes sunken in a little, still and quiet.

Y'Shtola sat in the chair beside the bed, looking as if she had been dragged behind a runaway chocobo for a few miles, and watched her patient with tired eyes.

They had stopped the bleeding, and though for a minute Nightbird had stopped breathing entirely, she had started again on her own. It had taken some while to clean up the mess, but at last that task was finished, and now it was merely the waiting. The conjurer had taken the vigil on herself, after dosing Felina. Otherwise the blond Miqote would not have rested for even a moment.

Pale was no better, sitting in the other chair in the room, slumped over and asleep with his arms on the table.

They cared about their friend a great deal. Y'Shtola hoped that Nightbird would understand that, when she woke.

She had felt it, felt the wish to die, as the woman lay bleeding under her hands. She had felt such before, in those mortally wounded, and while she did not understand the kind of madness that let any person love another to the point of wishing to die rather than live without the beloved...she had seen that, too. They had slipped through her hands... She would not see another patient lost to such sentiment, however.

She wondered, briefly, about the fifth presence she had sensed during the scramble in the night. Someone - or something - very powerful had been with Nightbird, but she had had her hands far too full keeping the woman alive to deal with a presence that was not interfering.

The dark-skinned Miqote stirred, and Y'Shtola leaned forward, her elbows on her knees.

“You awaken once more. Twelve be praised.”

“The Twelve had nothing to do with it.” Nightbird’s voice was raspy, and she coughed. “Water?”

Y'Shtola nodded to the mug beside the bed, and Nightbird sat up on her elbow and took a large swallow. Then lay back, and looked at the conjurer.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“I am not inclined to compel thanks from one who clearly does not wish to proffer it.”

Nightbird sighed. “I don’t want to die, not anymore. So thank you.”

Y'Shtola's eyes narrowed. “You seem remarkably composed for someone who just survived a miscarriage. You were fourteen weeks along, you know.”

“They would have looked like their father,” Nightbird answered, her voice dull. “Two red haired, impish little boys...” Her eyes raised, and her gaze hit Y'Shtola like lead. “I know well what I have lost. And what I have retained.”

“Your life…”

“Which is worth less than the muck of a stable, right now.” Nightbird’s gaze did not waver. “Everything I worked for, everything I built with him, is worthless to me now. The life I wanted, I will never have.”

“You are not without options. And not without friends,” Y'Shtola inclined her head towards Pale.

“I know.” A long sigh. “I will need rest for quite a while, to recover, won’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Am I barren?”

Y'Shtola eyed her patient warily. “Though it is a bit soon to be sure, there did not appear to be lasting damage of that sort, no.”

“Hydaelyn is most generous.” The bitterness in the words made the conjurer start back a little.

“Nightbird...I am perhaps not your closest friend, but I am here for you, should you need…”

“Your concern is appreciated.” The terse words were softened by the sad smile Nightbird gave her. “Truly. I am going to be all right. Eventually. I have to be. I have no choice.”

Y'Shtola could only stare, perturbed by the strange, fey woman that sat so calmly and yet seemed so…

“I think I will sleep, now.” And without another word, Nightbird lay down, turned her back to the room, and was still.

*

When Felina awoke, it was late afternoon. Her body felt as if weights had been tied to her limbs. She shook her head trying to clear the fog in her brain when the door opened. Pale came in a pair of plates laden with fruit and cheese.

“You’re awake.”

Felina swung her legs over the side of the bed, throwing off the blanket. “Is she okay?! Why didn’t you wake me sooner?!” She went for the door, but Pale stepped in front of her, grasping her by the shoulders.

“She’s fine. She turned a corner late last night, and she’s going to be okay. She just needs rest now.”

“I want to see her!”

“She’s sleeping.” Pale bent his knees to bring them eye to eye. “And you’re shaking. You need to eat.”

“Who’s been watching her? I know you couldn’t have-”

“Y'Shtola's been helping, taking watch so we could rest.” He squeezed her arms for emphasis. “Come on. Sit down and eat.”

Felina’s lips flattened into a straight line, and her eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you wake me last night? She was on the floor when I found her! You shouldn’t have left her alone!”

“Felina, you were out cold. I wasn’t sure I could wake you, and I had to get help.”

“I would have woken up! I did when I heard her screaming, and you were nowhere to be found!” Her eyes filled with tears. “How _could_ you?”

Pale straightened. “You’re exhausted. You’re clearly not thinking straight-”

“I know my own mind, Pale!”

He sighed. “This is why Y'Shtola decided to dose you. You’re not doing Nightbird any favors being like this.”

“To hell with Y'Shtola! She had no right. And you shouldn’t have let her-”

Pale folded his arms. “Maybe you need another dose. You need to calm down and eat and rest if you want to be of any use to Nightbird.” His eyes narrowed. “You need to understand that we can’t do everything. Sometimes we need help, and we need it now, Felina.”

Felina’s hands tightened into fists. “Get out.”

Pale stood quietly, staring at the furious Miqote. “Fine. Just fucking eat something. We don’t need another patient to care for.” He turned and left the room, letting the door slam behind him.

As soon as he disappeared from her sight, she began to cry. She knew he was right. She knew he was doing his best, but she was still so angry. She promised Nightbird she wouldn’t leave her alone, and she was sound asleep as her friend nearly bled to death. She slumped down at the small table and stared at the fruit and cheese, plucking a grape from the bunch and rolled it between her fingers. The very idea of food made her nauseous. She sighed and put the grape in her mouth.

*

Felina peeked her head through the door of Nightbird’s room. It was quiet, but she saw the small Miqote shift in her bed, and she let herself in.

“Felina. I’m glad you’re back.” Nightbird opened her eyes, but didn’t move much more than that. “I’m sorry…”

Felina crossed the room, taking the chair next to her bed. “No, I’m sorry. I should have been with you last night… and today…”

Y'Shtola, standing near the table, snorted loudly. “I shall be sure to bring some form of chocolate with me when I return on the morrow. Clearly, all three of you require it.” She slipped out of the room, not waiting for either of the others to reply to her tart words.

Nightbird set her hand on Felina’s. “Please don’t feel that you’ve done anything wrong. You and Pale did not have to bring me here in the first place, much less the rest. I am glad you have been by my side. Nothing any of us could have done would have prevented...last night.”

Felina’s fingers curled into loose fists in her lap. “Maybe. But how could I have done any less? You’re my friend, my sister practically. I love you, Nightbird. You know that.”

Nightbird reached out and petted Felina’s arm, eyes glistening with tears that didn’t fall. “I love you too. You’ve been my best friend for longer than anyone. I wish you and I had been sisters for true.”

She smiled. “Family’s bigger than blood. That’s what my father used to tell me. I believe that.” She took Nightbird’s outstretched hand. “I’m here, no matter what though.” She chanced a small laugh. “Y'Shtola would gag if she were here.”

Nightbird smiled. “Probably. She isn’t heartless, though. One of these days I’m sure she’ll feel sentimental over someone.”

“I hope I’m there to rub her face in it.” She smirked.

Nightbird wished she didn’t ache so much. She wanted very badly to hug Felina. But she settled for holding her hand tightly, and let herself drift off again. Healing would take time; but she was, for the moment, no longer unwilling to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felina and Pale are, of course, characters belonging to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville)


	16. Lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Urianger is the only person to ever create an amber carbuncle, and at that, he's only managed the feat twice. Can he do it again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's word was a challenging one!

“Urianger? Are you in here?”

“Aye, Master Alphinaud, I am.”

“Your amber has arrived. I have it here. Is all else in readiness?”

“Ah!” The older Elezen's eyes lit up as he came around the bookcase and saw the wooden box in Alphinaud's hands. “Indeed, thy timing is most felicitous. I hath completed mine preparations but a moment ago.”

“I am glad to hear that.” Alphinaud handed over the little box, smiling. “Are you still willing to allow me to observe? I have read about your work here, but I confess I am yet eager to see the process in action.”

“Most assuredly, thou art welcome. One small point, however: thou must needs remove any hint of metal from thy garments, before thou joinest me in mine working.”

“Oh?” Alphinaud's eyebrows rose, but then he noticed that Urianger himself was wearing none of the usual ornaments that normally bedecked his gray robe. He was not even wearing his shoes. The scholar nodded. “I see. Then I shall be but a moment.”

The younger man stepped over to a small screened-off area, and soft sounds of clothing being manipulated ensued. Urianger paid no heed, instead setting the box down on the desk and opening it with eager fingers. When he lifted the palm sized chunk of polished amber out of its nest of excelsior, his usually solemn expression lightened, and he smiled widely. For an instant, he looked like a youth, rather than like a man with the weight of two worlds on his shoulders.

Then, he stepped quietly out of the research room, through the door that led to his laboratory.

The little workshop in the Bookman's Shelves was nothing much to look at, outwardly. Just a trio of rooms, linked one to the other in a kind of chain – a spacious outermost chamber, well supplied with shelves, a desk and a pair of chairs, and a small cot behind the carved mahogany screen. Had there been any more than that, the clutter would soon have been beyond all hope of control. As it was, the Exarch kept trying to persuade Urianger to hire someone from the Crystarium to come handle the chaos.

The second room held the laboratory – though most alchemists would have been baffled beyond words at the esoteric and unique apparatus on the long tables there. The walls were stout here, having been reinforced somewhat; in some prior century this room might once have functioned as a still-room of some sort. But no potions or tinctures were now created here: instead the tools of research required for one investigating aetherial phenomena crowded the available space. On the two walls that did not hold doors, massive slate boards had been affixed, which were covered with many diagrams and formulae. To eyes versed in the arcane – most especially to one trained in the Sharlayan disciplines – it was all beautifully laid out, with a precision bordering on obsessive. There were also, here and there, little scribbles that still could make Alphinaud's ears go pink – the equivalent to notes in the margins, but many of them were vulgar to say the least. Urianger had a habit of working out his frustrations in tortured rhymes and laborious puns in his working journals; but on the chalkboard, he fell back on much...earthier exclamations. Even Berylla would have understood a couple of the pictograms tucked away in the corners, like quiet curses.

Generally, no one was permitted more than a peek into this room. The average visitor – even the Scions – did not venture in, and unless they had Urianger's express permission, they could not even _perceive_ the door that led out of this second room and into the third.

The third room was, by comparison to the other two, a mere closet – twelve feet across, and perfectly circular. Its door was cunningly crafted so that from the inside it fit flush with the wall – so seamlessly that a relatively tiny latch worked into the carvings along the wall could easily fall into place and thus seal the door. Those carvings ran in a band, as thick as Ryne's forearm, all around the room at about the height one might normally expect a chair rail to be. There were carvings and runes on the beams of the curving ceiling, which was painted midnight blue, and precisely portioned out in six sections. Hanging from small wooden hooks in the ceiling were tiny gemstone chips and shards of quartz, suspended by silken thread, which when viewed from the correct spot below formed the constellations seen overhead in Il Mheg itself.

One might find the room astonishing for these things alone, until one noticed the floor.

Constructed of painstakingly fitted tiles of black marble and blue crystal, the joins of the tiles grouted with shimmering gold colored material (just what it was, Urianger refused to divulge, but it was most emphatically _not gold_ ), the patterns formed there called to mind the floor of the Ocular in the Crystarium – and yet it was not the same at all. Circles of protection, wards of privacy, sigils of power, and runes of divination crowded the space. It was gorgeous and yet the eye could not trace any single pattern in full. In six places, the carvings on the wall swooped up and down, creating smooth curves that linked floor and ceiling. The overall impression was of being within an elaborately ornamented egg.

There was nothing else in the room but these: no chairs, no rug, no chalkboards, not even a single lantern. There were six places among the floor patterns where one might place a thick candle, but today, no candles were placed there. Only a single square of plain gray granite, set precisely in the center of the room.

It was on this slab of granite that Urianger placed his piece of amber.

Alphinaud stepped through the door as the astrologian straightened. He had shed his coat and boots and a good bit of his other gear, and was clad now in simply his shirt, trousers, and stocking feet. Even his customary hair ornament had been left behind, and his earring.

He took a long look around the room. “My word, Urianger. I have never seen anything quite like this.”

“Fortune smiled on me to grant time and resources for it,” Urianger answered with a small shrug. “Pray take the North, my friend. I must needs be in the South for this.”

“Of course.” Alphinaud stepped over to the clearly inscribed circle at the northern point of the room. Once there, he sat down, folding his legs in the way he had learned during his time in the Far East. Urianger closed the door, and latched it.

The moment the little bit of wood fell into place, the whole room changed, though not to the outward eye.

Before, there had only been the physical room itself – its aetheric signatures were muted, nothing more than one might expect from any other furniture. But with the circle closed, and Urianger's will activating the protections...

Alphinaud's breath caught. He stared around, eyes wide and lips parted, for a long moment.

Aetheric energies glowed everywhere around them; flickers of power circled, as if a million sparks had settled into the carvings and the runes, forming not just rings but shells of power around them.

Outermost: like a veil of stars, a protective ward that merged with – was part of – the very walls of the place; its power anchored by, and to, the bands of carved ornamentation on walls and ceiling. Alphinaud's senses detected what his eyes could not: the ward extended beneath the ground, encasing them in a sphere of power, mirror smooth on the inside. He shivered inwardly as he understood that this was a ward meant to protect others against what might take place within this room. Any mistake would be reflected into their faces.

He was glad that Urianger had a great deal of experience and was unlikely to make such mistakes.

The next layers inward appeared to be adjustable, for they did not look quite “complete” to Alphinaud's senses; they hung like partitions in a Far Eastern home, movable and oddly self-contained. As he watched, Urianger's will manipulated those sheets and shapes, and some pieces “folded away,” becoming inactive, while others moved into place with an almost audible set of clicks until the walls and floor were covered in faintly glowing inscriptions: the framework for the summoning Urianger was about to perform.

Urianger did not speak; he did not need to speak. Alphinaud was familiar with the academic aspects of the ritual – and quite as adept with carbuncles overall as Urianger himself. They did not need to discuss why the use of amber as a focus was so unusual, nor what specific formulae Urianger planned to invoke. What Alphinaud wished to learn now was the actual process – everything the older mage had told him so far made it plain that the summoning of this particular carbuncle was something quite unlike any of the standard methods.

Therefore, Urianger did not speak to his comrade. He merely began.

First, the amber itself. Alphinaud had examined many a gemstone – it was one of the very first lessons any student of arcanima mastered – and was familiar with the crystalline matrices of nearly every stone known to Eorzea. He had even delved somewhat into certain other substances – pearls and obsidian – mineraloids, but not _stones_ as such. Yet those substances still had certain structures, though their geometries were unusual.

Amber was not mineral in origin at all, but was merely tree resin, hardened into a polymerized form over time...it had no crystalline matrix and no regular structure at all, and it was a soft material as well. Many of his peers in Sharlayan had shaken their heads over the very notion, convinced that amber would never be able to retain enough aether to even reshape its form, much less contain the necessary amounts to eventually become a carbuncle.

Yet, Urianger had done the thing. Only twice, it was true; and Urianger himself had admitted that both times, the resulting summon had been fairly unstable and rather ephemeral, dismantling itself in a matter of hours. But the fact that he had done it at all was what interested Alphinaud: for in all the journals and notes and discussions, nowhere had Urianger explained just _how_ he had succeeded.

When pressed, his answer had boiled down to, more or less, “I would have to show you.”

And so here they were, with the biggest, clearest piece of amber that Alphinaud could lay his hands on, specifically for this endeavor.

The room's sigils and runes flared for a moment, and Alphinaud shut his eyes, the better to concentrate on the aether around him.

The second phase of Urianger's process involved infusion of aether – most carbuncles were formed from stones that had already accumulated the appropriately aspected aether, but amber did not generally attract aether at all...not on its own. However, Alphinaud saw that Urianger was drawing on the ambient, undifferentiated aether of the earth beneath them. In fact, he was gathering the aether up into a kind of “spindle” shape – the analogy to thread continued to hold, as he watched the older mage spin the power into threads of blended earth and water energies. Then he braided two different sorts of wind aether into that – slightly astral wind and slightly umbral – and then spun it all again into a composite flow. And only then did he take that twice-refined power and wrap it around and through the amber.

The amber began to physically glow, and levitated off the granite slab. It vibrated, though _that_ was only obvious when looking at it with aether sight. Urianger passed the strange thread of aether that he had created over and through the resin, his hands moving as he guided the power.

Alphinaud had to hold in his urge to exclaim as he understood what his comrade was doing. Amber had no structure, no matrix on which to anchor the formulas, the arcane code-strings that were the true “form” of any arcane construct. Urianger, having created his thread, was now _weaving a matrix into place_ , melding it with the substance of the amber: infusion in a wholly different manner than anything he had ever seen or theorized. The only reason it was working at all was because Urianger had laboriously braided and blended the aether he was using: that thread of power was now, in effect, a polymer just the same as the resin of the amber was, and Urianger was literally braiding the two on a level Alphinaud could barely believe possible.

This was not an easy task, either. He could sense the effort this was costing the astrologian. He comprehended in that instant why Urianger had not attempted this summon very often: he must not often have had the energy to spare for such exertions.

But even as he reached that conclusion, there was a stutter in the power around them, and Urianger cursed softly.

Alphinaud peered, and saw that Urianger's thread of power had become tangled – knotted on some tiny, unseen flaw in the amber. An inclusion, perhaps, but it didn't really matter – the tension of the thread was trembling, and Urianger was in danger of losing control.

But after a tense moment of struggle, the obstacle was dealt with. It left a somewhat ugly knot in the overall weave, but Urianger seemed able to continue his work.

Seeing that made Alphinaud realize the reason no one else had been able to duplicate this summoning.

No piece of amber would be the same, and there could be no way to predict those changes. One's aether sight would have to be finely honed to even begin this attempt, and even so – as he had just seen – that did not guarantee one would not encounter impurities so tiny as to be nearly undetectable. And one would never be able to rely on straightforward formulas, or static sequences, as one could with topaz, or emerald, or diamond.

Any arcanist could recite the words of power, the proper sequences, and summon up a simple aquamarine carbuncle. Not all of them could then properly recreate the desired behavioral programming – which was why Tataru had been unable to control her carbuncle during her short foray into the arts magical. But the sequences were _known_ , and did not deviate.

Urianger's process was madness – genius – inspired – insane. His spell was as much art as mathematics; an act of pure determination that this chunk of fossilized tree sap _would_ answer to his will. Even the most studied of arcanists back home would quail at the notion if they had understood.

But Urianger's will was as a sword of adamant, sharp and precise, and he wielded it with the same grace in this realm as Alisaie could wield her rapier on the battlefield.

The amber was changing.

Softly glowing, it seemed to melt in the air, and then stretched and twisted. As if it were molten glass being shaped by an invisible artisan of surpassing skill, exquisitely formed limbs appeared – four delicate legs, and three tails, diaphanous as silk scarves. The head formed last, narrower than the usual shape – almost fox like – and then there it was. Smaller than a cat, but quite a bit larger than the original lump of amber: elegant in proportions, delicate, translucent and lovely. Liquid fire seemed to swirl inside of it.

It opened its eyes, and a tiny little yip issued from its pointed snout. The eyes gleamed like candle flames as it glanced around.

Urianger's brow was coated with sweat, and Alphinaud watched in fascination as the astrologian moved faster now, tying off the threads of power in complicated knots.

_Urianger had actually done it!_

The aether shivered around them. Alphinaud glanced around in concern, and then realized that Urianger was struggling.

He had, all this time, been continuously drawing in aether, but now that he was trying to let it go, the power did not want to meekly settle back into its natural flows. The room itself had taken on a kind of aetheric charge, and the power was threatening to break loose from Urianger's grasp.

Then, with a gasp, the older mage lost his hold on it.

There was a smell of ozone as the unleashed aether bounced from glyph to glyph, and then dashed itself against the outermost shield. Alphinaud threw his arms over his face as the shield did its job and reflected the blast back into the center of the room.

_**KA-THOOM!!!** _

Alphinaud opened his eyes and found himself lying on his side. He stayed still a moment, assessing his own condition. He felt bruised – no surprise there – and there was a certain tightness to the skin of his ears, not unlike a sunburn. Otherwise he seemed unharmed. Cautiously, he sat up.

There were shards of stone on the floor all around him, and he comprehended that most, if not all, of the gemstone “stars” that had hung from the ceiling had fallen – their threads appeared to have been burned through.

Urianger was lying flat on his back, robe askew, limbs sprawled. The tiny amber carbuncle sat on his chest, idly washing its paw, completely unconcerned with its creator's condition.

Alphinaud got to his feet, and came over to Urianger, kneeling down and examining his friend.

But his pulse was strong, and he showed no signs of injury – merely a minor burn here and there. He did look somewhat ludicrous, for his chest and face were liberally coated with soot for some reason. But he was, overall, unhurt. It occurred to the scholar that he likely looked no better.

He breathed a small sigh of relief, and set his hand on the older man's shoulder, sending a pulse of healing into him, enough to rouse him to his senses and get him on his feet.

Urianger groaned softly, then opened his eyes. “Well. Mine concluding moves wert perhaps less than optimal.”

“Indeed.” Alphinaud smiled despite his dry tone. “A success, nonetheless.”

“Hm.” Urianger's eyes drifted to the little creature sitting on him. One hand lifted, and he petted the carbuncle. It responded with a trilling sound, and then hopped down to the floor and began to bat shards of quartz about the room.

Urianger sat up, groaning one more time, and surveyed the room. “Not the worst explosion I hath weathered,” he commented. “But I believe a bath is in order.” He turned his gaze to his friend. “I trust that thy curiosity is thus sated?”

“Very much so, and I thank you,” Alphinaud answered. His eyes gleamed with poorly suppressed excitement. “I do believe I may be able to adapt your technique here to opals, assuming I can locate any of suitable size and purity.”

Urianger huffed a laugh. “I bid thee good fortune with thy efforts, then.”

The two of them clambered to their feet, and Urianger dismissed the wards and let them out of the work-room. The tiny amber carbuncle followed after them, frisky as a kitten, giving off a soft scent of incense as it ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to the Book Club for some great discussions about carbuncles and other magical things, they helped me get my brain moving to bring this story into something coherent!


	17. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can you do, when the one you love is dying before your eyes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are 5.0 spoilers here, and some may be upset by the grieving.

As I write this, you are asleep. I can see you from where I sit, at your table.

Let me begin by saying the most important thing first.

I love you. I have never loved anyone else.

I am terrified, in this moment, that I am losing you.

I write this, knowing you will never read it, but...I can hardly confide in the others. They would not be unsympathetic. But what can they say? What can anyone say? You have taken in more Light than any one body should be able to hold. It is a miracle you are still yourself at all.

I sat beside you for hours, after we carried you back from the mountain.

Each day we all scatter, scrambling for something, anything to help you...but part of me cannot leave your side. Each day, I return to the Crystarium, and I come here. I have not seen my own room in days.

Your face frightens me. You are too still. Too pale. Your breathing is so slow, and so shallow, that I find myself wanting to check your pulse, much too often.

The Light yet throbs within you, a palpable pressure – to me at least. Perhaps because we have spent so much time together, shared so much. Perhaps only because I am looking for it.

I can see what it is doing to your body. I do not want to see, but I cannot look away.

Light is stasis: and slowly that deathly stillness is creeping through your body. By now, I expect you would be feeling numbness in your limbs, were you awake. The blood flows through you, but sluggishly. None of your major organs are failing...yet. Even if there were no risk of you being turned into a sin eater, this overabundance of energy is going to kill you.

There is nothing I can do.

I am unaccustomed to feeling helpless this way. Perhaps I am a fool, to harbor any illusion that I can handle whatever I set my mind to – but a lifetime of habit is truly hard to break. I still believed we could save Minfilia, even when it had been proven that she was beyond saving.

I was a fool then, and if I am yet a fool...then I am a fool who believes. A fool who loves you. I will not change that.

I know that you will wake. I know what you will do, or try to do, when you wake. It is only a question of when, really; of whether we will catch you before you can leave us behind and throw yourself into whatever trap Emet-Selch has laid for you.

Thaliak grant that we are in time. If I must lose you, I would delay it as long as I may.

My beloved. How my heart aches now.

You sleep once more, here at the bottom of the sea, in this strange place. It has a grim beauty to it, and I can see how it calls to you...I can see memories in your eyes that I cannot understand. You have grown silent and strange. You are still yourself: still Berylla, still the woman I love. And yet you are something else, something...more. This city of ghosts has stirred something in you, and I am not even sure how to talk to you about it. Only the fact that you still clung to me as you fell asleep reassured me that you had not somehow forgotten us...forgotten me.

Your hair is fading.

Your heart is faltering.

It hurts to watch you dying.

It hurts to think on what you told me. That I must not give up, even if we should lose you.

I do not want to write. I want to take you in my arms and hold you, tighter and tighter, and never let you go. I know that to do so is futile, and will only make you upset to see me clinging to you, to see me weep. I understand that all my tears would avail me naught.

So I write, that you may rest.

I do not want to watch you dying.

But I cannot look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admitting here that this comes somewhat from a place I am at this time, with a loved one dying from a chronic illness.  
> It is not pretty, and it is not easy.  
> It is my hope that maybe this brings a little catharsis to anyone else unfortunate enough to be enduring this pain.  
> I only wish I could say it's going to be all right.


	18. In Memoriam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird is not about to let anything - or anyone - ruin Haurchefant's memorial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's word was "panglossian."  
> For those who might not know, as I did not - Dr. Pangloss was a character Voltaire's book Candide. The overall idea associated with the man (and the source of this word), is that "everything that happens, happens for the best, in this best of all possible worlds."  
> Another way of phrasing this that I saw in discussions was "toxic positivity."

“Such a shame, to have lost such a valiant knight so young. And yet, perhaps it was for the best.”

Nightbird's head turned slowly. The man who had spoken stood hip-shot, arms crossed, gazing at the massive array of flowers that had joined the elegant arrangement of lilies and white roses.

The Count had specifically commanded that the official floral arrangements be austere.

Then, he had made a point of announcing that anyone who wished to do so might bring their own small remembrance for the fallen. The result: white roses, white lilies, and a profusion of flowers. Most of them were snapdragons, which were abundant at this time of year; but there were all sorts of flowers. From humble baskets of freshly picked wildflowers to a tall, slender silver birch in a fine urn, to wreaths of dubious taste: the gamut of Ishgardian sentiment was well represented.

They had opened the cathedral doors at dawn and there had already been a throng waiting: if one looked at the front steps now, it looked as if the crowd had not diminished by a single person. The poorer folk had come first – today was to be a half-holiday only, and some of them would have to take that half-day this morning. But now it was nearly tea-time; the well-to-do were parading by, ostentatiously placing their little tokens and murmuring pious little phrases before making their way out. Most of the nobility had made their own appearances hours ago, tastefully placing this social obligation ahead of their usual “afternoon calls;” though not replacing their afternoon socializing entirely.

She knew Haurchefant had been well liked, and popular in more ways than one. It had warmed her heart, a tiny bit, to see how the small-folk wept honest tears as they placed down flowers and tiny charms – things they must have created from found objects with their own hands. The Count had eyed the growing pile of items with a small, sad smile, but no surprise and no concern. He had known how much Haurchefant had cared for every part of Ishgard, and he had known (as she had not) how much effort the silver knight had spent over the years to improve the lot of the city's poor.

This whole memorial had taught her a lot about the man they had lost. She had not been close with Haurchefant – not the way some of his friends had been. But she had liked him, and not just because of the love Estinien bore for his friend. He had been a stalwart ally to her, and to those she cared about. He had never once let his optimism falter. He had been a true friend to Aymeric as much as to Estinien. The sting of loss, for her, was in the regret of not having known him better.

But this...cretin...standing just out of arm's reach...

He wore the colors of mourning, a finely made suit in black wool-plush and linen; clearly a man of “good breeding” as some might say. But there was not a speck of grief about him, not in his expression, not in his tone of voice, not even in his posture.

“I beg your pardon?” She had heard him fine the first time, but she was hoping her ice cold tone of voice might awaken the lout to the utterly inappropriate nature of his idle comment.

“Well, but how many maidens' virtue is now secure?” The lout smiled, not meeting her eyes. “How many wives are rescued from the temptation of infidelity with the man?”

Nightbird held in the urge to growl as she understood his intent.

This man was here to provoke an incident; to smear Haurchefant's name and spoil the memorial. He straightened up, and it was clear he was preparing to go spread his malicious sentiments farther. She stepped closer to him, and drew carefully upon her power, swiftly plucking her aether into the necessary shapes.

“I will only warn you once,” she said softly. But her power, like a stiletto, pressed against his mind and his body. It wasn't entirely ethical, what she was about to do. But she would not permit this _pig_ to sully this place for another minute.

“How dare you – aghk.” His head had turned toward her, but whatever arrogant retort he had been about to spew froze on his tongue. His eyes went wide and bulged just a little in shock as she stole his breath from his lungs and clamped down on his vocal cords, rendering him silent. The effects did not last long, and he would be in no danger – he wouldn't even pass out from lack of air. But he could not make a sound, and she had his full attention, which was all she needed.

She stared into his eyes, still almost two feet away from him, her arms still by her sides. To all outward appearances she was doing nothing at all.

To him, she was transformed.

She wove the illusion solely in his mind, plucking the most intimidating person from his memories and swathing that figure in fear. She became, for an instant, his literal worst nightmare. And then she flung an aura of glory over herself, invoking every scrap of belief the lout possessed. Even the most cynical Ishgardian believed in Halone the Fury. And now, as the fool's eyes watered, as his assaulted mental faculties lost all sense of time and place, as she crushed his will beneath a hammer of fear and shame, she spoke.

For him, her voice was that of a god; for the rest of the world, she merely murmured a single sentence.

“Do not darken my house again, sinner.”

And she turned her face from him.

Entangled as she was, she did not need to see his reaction, she felt it: a wordless cry of dismay, a babble of panicked regret. She constructed a single image – a suggestion of a man in clothes similar to his own, laboring diligently at carrying baskets of broken stone. Then she let him go, dropping him back into reality like a stone dropped into a well.

He was enough of a nobleman not to fall to his knees on the spot. But his cheeks were wet with tears and he made his way hastily out of the cathedral, to the point of causing a very minor stir as he pushed through the crowd in his effort to escape.

She took a long, deep breath, and let it out again.

The Count touched her elbow. “Is everything all right, my dear?”

She turned to look at him, and gave him a quiet smile. “It is now, my lord.”

The memorial continued its stately, solemn progress. The cathedral would close its doors again at nightfall; then Haurchefant's funeral would be officially ended.

Somewhere down in the Brume, a man in slightly rumpled finery appeared, bearing a sledgehammer, and headed into one of the areas closed off due to being destroyed and unsafe. Presently, the ring of steel against stone could be heard, and it continued even after night had fallen. People whispered, and some few crept after the man to see what madness had possessed him. Rumor traveled by morning of the slightly mad but obviously very pious man who was apparently intent on clearing the debris of that neighborhood with his own hands.

The madman, meanwhile, sweated and prayed, his mind filled only with the vision of the Fury, and his need to atone.


	19. Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old memories, and old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some 5.0 spoilers, ish?

In the Seventh Heaven, the tavern that served Revenant's Toll – and incidentally helped conceal the entrance to the Rising Stones – a man sat on a stool, a harp at his knee, arms crossed, apparently dozing in the mid-afternoon quiet. He was quite unremarkable except for his gaudy clothes.

This was the slowest time of day for the tavern, and no one was about to call for ballads or bawdy tunes.

Marius rested when he could.

His senses ranged through the town, gently brushing against the souls buzzing about like hummingbirds. Bright and beautiful, so fleeting...so fragile. For a wonder, there were no pockets of brewing trouble; the entire town, even to the chocobos in the stables, felt drowsy and content, basking in the strangely watery sunlight of Mor Dhona.

His mind wandered into memory.

*

“I cannot believe you did such a thing,” he wheezed. “And all for grapes?”

“You can't deny these are the best grapes you've ever tasted!”

He broke up into gales of laughter again, falling over on his side on her couch. She made a face at him, standing near the coffee table and the gigantic basket of lusciously purple grapes.

“It's not that funny. Lunatic.”

“Ah,” he wiped at his eyes and got hold of himself, “very well, I will leave off. And they _are_ very good grapes.” He sat up and plucked another, popping it into his mouth. “Though you could have taken up samples of the root stock, you know.”

She got a sly look, and he swallowed the grape, then eyed her.

“You...utter... _minx_. You did, didn't you?”

“Maybe. Maybe someone else did it. I had some friends with me.” She examined her nails.

“And you did not inform your peers on the Convocation?”

“There's a memo on their desks at this moment.” Her lips curved in a smug smile. “From Halmarut. Thanking them for their contribution to the Gardens and the seed vault.”

“Why did you need the Ifrita then?!”

“There were more than grapes at stake, darlin'.” Her smile ran away. “Those people would have lost far more than vineyards and homes. They've lived on that island for seven centuries, you know.”

“So?”

She rolled her eyes. “So there's a lot of memories there, not preserved in crystals, just soaked into the aether of the land itself.”

“Such things can be recorded...”

“With enough time.” She crossed her arms. “I know I play dumb, but I'm not an _actual_ idiot. I didn't stop that volcano, I _delayed_ it. I bought them the time they need. They'll be able to pack up and leave, but now they will have time to do all that is necessary before...they have to say goodbye.”

Her voice wobbled on the final word, and he reached out one long arm and tugged her down beside him. She let him, and burrowed into his embrace, head down, flaming hair spilling over her robe and down her back. She always hid her face from him at moments like these, but he knew she was fighting down tears.

He simply held her, knowing that words would do no good.

Two centuries, and still she grieved for the loss of her parents. Two centuries of inquiry and research and still no one had any idea what had happened to them.

There were no bodies. No trail leading into the Lifestream. No evidence that they were dead.

And no evidence that they were _alive_ , either. They had simply vanished, and she had never come to terms with it, never gotten any closure.

Of course she would be... _intensely concerned_ about that sort of loss. Of course she would fixate on making connections, as many as she could. Of course she sought out touch, comfort, love in any form. One friend was not enough, one lover was not enough; the whole world could embrace this woman and it would never fill the hole in her heart.

She would never admit that. She refused to even acknowledge the plain fact that she went to ridiculous lengths to preserve the happiness of those who called her friend.

It made him jealous, sometimes, when he was feeling insecure and lonely himself. But he had loved her for long enough that he knew: she would come back to him, like a wandering albatross. And perhaps some of her attitude was rubbing off on him; these days he found himself able to at least understand what she saw in, say, Hades – a personality he had never been able to mesh with, and someone he was just as glad not to be required to interact with very often.

He petted her hair as she sniffled and hiccuped once. “Sorry.” Her voice was muffled.

“You know that you don't need to apologize.”

“You take such good care of me.”

“It's what I'm here for, love.”

She sat up. “I worry about you sometimes.”

“Oh? How flattering, that the Shepherd to the Stars worries for little old me.”

She pushed at his shoulder. “Asshole. I hate that title and you know it.” But her flash of humor faded. “Seriously, you weren't born just for me, that's ludicrous. And not very healthy for you.”

He laughed, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Goose. I meant that's why I haunt your apartment.”

Her cheeks went rosy-pink, and then she tackled him, bearing him down onto the couch cushions, her mouth seeking his.

She tasted far sweeter than the grapes.

*

Marius opened his eyes. A very old memory, indeed. Eons had passed since...

“Hey, there, Berylla, what can I get you?”

“Please tell me you got some more Ishgardian lager in. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.”

“Well of course I got some more. You're the only one that buys it, but damn if you're not a good steady customer!”

The tall red-head laughed heartily and paid up her coin, accepting two brown-glass bottles before sauntering out in the afternoon sunlight.

He set aside his harp, stood up, and followed.

She ended up on the heights – creature of habit that she was – and settled down onto a crate. Marius wondered idly if anyone was ever going to actually clean up the walk-ways up here. The crates hadn't moved in years.

“Hello, Marius. What's on your mind?”

He half smiled, and sat down on another crate, a bit apart from her. “I merely wished to greet my old friend.”

Her head bowed. “My new old friend,” she murmured. He sat up a little, realizing she had spoken not in the common tongue of the mortals, but in the ancient mode.

“Where did you go?” he asked her, in the same mode.

She lifted her head and stared at him. “I didn't go anywhere. I remembered.”

His chest ached. “I see.”

“Do you?” Her eyes bored into him, as if she expected him to flourish a mask and a black robe.

He regarded her, disquieted. “I hope you do not expect a great deal of drama out of me, my dear. I am too old and tired for it.”

She snorted. “Asshole.” But there was a fondness to the way she said it, and she still spoke in the ancient tongue, soft and musical. It made his whole self shiver. He had not heard such music in so long...so very long.

“I know you can travel the same as I can.” She looked down. “I think you ought to come with me, some time when I visit the First again.”

“Why?”

“Amaurot is there.” She shook her head a little. “It's only a simulation, small and limited and...sad. But at the same time it...” She lifted her head once more, and tears stood in her eyes now. “It felt like home.”

“What, will you keep an apartment there again, for me to haunt?”

She stared at him, and then laughed, shakily. “No. That place was my home once. It isn't anymore. I just...got kind of nostalgic.” She cracked open one of the beers, and handed it to him.

As he took it from her, she asked, “Don't you ever get homesick? Don't you ever look at us and hate us, just a little bit?”

“No. I don't.” He drank thoughtfully, then continued. “I sometimes feel lonely, to be sure. It is not at all easy to be constrained to watch, and only watch, for so much of the time. But...I have never hated the mortals, any of you.”

“Why?”

“Because of what you, yourself, taught me.”

“Me?” She looked confused. “I was a professional troublemaker, honestly. What could I possibly have taught you?”

“There's a quaint old saying, isn't there, about home is where the heart is?” He half smiled as she glowered at his seeming non-sequitur. “Your talent was, and is, connection. Connecting with people, connecting them to each other, building friendships and sowing the seeds for more. I lived with you for a thousand years. I couldn't help but pick up a thing or two. Such as understanding that your home was never in that apartment to begin with.”

She just waited. She had truly changed. A year ago she would have demanded explanation or scoffed at him or complained that he was being cryptic again.

“You taught me that home is not a place in the world, but a place within oneself.” He drank more beer. “For all that you are broken and battered, for all that you have endured, you still have not lost that, not completely.”

“I loved you then.”

“I know.”

“I don't know what I think about you now.”

“You don't need to think anything in particular. I, too, am not what I was. Not quite. And in any event, I don't figure into your story.”

She sat up. “Don't tell me you're leaving.”

“I'm not.” He chuckled. “Still can't handle good-byes, can you?”

She was silent, and he looked at her, unsurprised to see the tears on her cheeks. She opened the other beer and took a long swallow before she spoke. “They still hurt. They always will.”

“Yes.” He toyed with his bottle for a moment. When he spoke again, it was in the mortal tongue. “You might as well go right back to treating me as the annoying wandering minstrel that sometimes wheedles stories out of you, you know. It will be easier on you.”

“Yeah.” She followed his lead. “I never thought about home so much before this. But...I learned a lot on the First. About everything.” She tilted her head up. “It's not over. There are still...a lot of troubles ahead of us.”

“If there is no other constant in the world as it is now...”

Her voice was so quiet he had to work to hear her. “Suffering and death?”

“No.” He finished his beer, stood, and stepped close to her. “Love, and hope. They keep each other alive, in each of us.”

She looked up at him, then stood, setting her beer aside unfinished. When her arms encircled him, he smiled a little, and returned the hug.

“Welcome home. “


	20. The Exarch's Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Warrior of Light loves someone, who would dare step between her and her beloved?  
> Well, an Ascian would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew it would get smutty and weird eventually!!  
> There's a LOT of 5.0 spoilers in this.  
> There's a good bit of sex in this!  
> If explicit material upsets you, don't read this one.

Your mother told you never to eavesdrop. Yet, here you are...and you cannot _believe_ what you're hearing.

You had seen him strolling off into the orchards, one of his favorite places to go and simply enjoy the quiet. You had followed, furtively, hoping to catch him alone and...

But the Exarch is, demonstrably, not alone.

“Come now, my crystalline companion, tell me. What do you really see in her?”

The voice is smooth – velvety – sensuous – venomous. Your hands curl into fists but you stand rooted to the spot, leaning up against the trunk of the oak tree, trapped by your own foolishness. If you move, even to run away...

Emet-Selch speaks again. “What do you _see_ in her, Exarch? She is only a hero to others. Never to you, hmm?”

“Do not speak thus of her. She is...very important to me.”

Your ears burn. Then you hear the unmistakable sound – the Exarch groans. You _know_ his groan, you have pulled that sound from his lips how many times as he kissed you...

All of you burns, now.

A gasp. Is that a rustle of cloth, or just wind in the leaves?

“Not...not _here_ , damn your eyes.”

“Oh yes. Here and now.”

“Can you not wait until I am in private at least – ”

Another gasp.

“I have waited _enough_. And you want this, every bit as much as I do. I can feel it in your aether.”

The Exarch moans. You have heard that moan before too. That was the moan he made for you, when you took his cock in your hand and...

Twelve preserve you, your smalls are damp.

Damn it! You had only followed after the Exarch because you wanted to apologize. Firmly, you shove the _other_ thing out of your mind.

Unfortunately it does not obey your will – not with the sound of the Exarch's pleasure in your ears. And then, incredibly – he _whines_.

“Wh-why...?”

“I shall only continue, dear Exarch, when you have answered my question. What is it you see in that scruffy adventurer?”

“She is not _scruffy_. She is charmingly unsophisticated. Straightforward. And – ah! – she is...my inspiration...”

You can't help yourself, you can't resist any longer. You ease yourself along the tree trunk, edging closer so that you can peek around. You don't want to look, but you have to see...

And you do see. You see the Exarch leaning against a tree, hood back, ears flattened, his head tilted to rest against the bark. You see the Exarch's robes, rucked up, exposing ankles and teasing at a hint of knee.

You see an all too familiar set of dark robes...on the ground...

You bite your hand to keep from making a noise.

Emet-Selch is brazen indeed. In broad daylight, in the middle of the Crystarium orchards, he has his head under the Exarch's robes and...and...

Another of those groans, with which you've become achingly familiar. The look on the Exarch's face makes your sex gush, even as the implied motion beneath his robes makes your mouth water with wanting.

But you mustn't let him know you're here, and so you plaster yourself against the trunk of your own tree, and try not to whimper when he begins to speak once more.

“If not for her, there would be no hope for this world. If not for her I might never have come here.” He hisses, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, his head bending down as if he would look at the man kneeling between his legs. “She is generous of spirit and – ah, gods-dammit – _hah_ – she has ever been a friend to me.” His mouth twists. “Not like _you_.”

Robes rustle, and Emet-Selch emerges, hair mussed, mouth slick with spit, and that damned smile on his face, that _smug fucking smile_ that made you want to punch him. “And what am I like, if not like your vaunted hero, hm?”

“I don't _know_ ,” and now the Exarch's groan is one of a man pushed to the limits of his patience. “I don't _know_ anymore why I allow you such liberties. I ought to hate you. We are adversaries, our goals can never align. I don't even _like_ you...!”

But even as he says it, he is stroking his adversary's face, sliding his thumb into that smarmy damned mouth, and Emet-Selch is taking that thumb and his cheeks are hollowing as he sucks, never breaking eye contact with the Exarch.

With a wet pop, Emet-Selch pulls his head back, and laughs quietly. “You may not like me, but you certainly like what I _do_ to you. Do you not?”

The Exarch bites his lip. Emet-Selch's smile widens. “I could,” his voice becomes silky with threat, “just stop right now, and leave.”

The Exarch's crystalline hand shoots out, his fingers knotting in the other's hair.

“ _Don't you dare leave me like this_.”

You are startled by the vehemence, by the way he growls the words, a deep rumble in his chest. He has never spoken to you like _that_.

“Then ask me _nicely_ , oh mighty Exarch. _Beg me_.”

The Exarch shudders.

“You are such a bastard,” he whispers. And then, even as his face reddens, “I beg of you, Emet-Selch. Wrap that wretched mouth around my cock and pleasure me. I would feel you swallowing my seed.”

Your vision wavers and you think you might faint.

Emet-Selch laughs – a laugh like none you have ever heard issue from the Ascian before. A _joyous_ laugh. And then his head vanishes beneath the Exarch's robes once more.

You cannot tear yourself away. Your hand has drifted down to your groin and you realize you're rubbing yourself through your clothes. Utterly shameful. Your face is burning with the shame of it. But your core is burning far hotter as you watch the Exarch's expressions.

You can only watch.

Watch as his eyes drift half closed. Watch as his hands make fists in his robes, dragging them up farther. Watch as he shifts his feet apart, the better to rock his hips into the mouth that pleasures him.

You can see a flash of thigh now and then as he moves.

Desire stabs through you. Heedless now of shame or risk of discovery, you shove your hand down until you can get your fingers on your dripping-wet sex. You still cannot pull your eyes away, even when you begin to rub your clit with urgent strokes.

The Exarch's crystalline hand is clutching at the head beneath his robes, now; he is fucking Emet-Selch's face. Is this how he looks, when he begins to lose control, when it is _you_ sucking on that lovely cock? For you have always thought his cock lovely, even before this insane situation came about. You wish for a moment that it was _you_ kneeling on the grass, _you_ driving him to this frenzy...

His eyes open wide and he cries out, that sweet cry that you know too well. Your own orgasm flashes across you like a squall front, crashing through your body as you imagine that it is _you_ swallowing spurt after spurt of hot come...

His eyes meet yours. _He sees you._

Not only can you not move, not run away – you collapse to your knees as you come a second time just from the look on his face. Tears spangle your cheeks, tears of shame and jealousy and sweet relief.

Emet-Selch disentangles himself from silken robes, and looks over his shoulder.

“So good of you to actually join us, hero. I trust you are _enjoying_ yourself.”

You are back in your own suite at the Pendants.

You don't quite remember getting here. You stand in the middle of the room, panting for breath, heart hammering, cheeks burning. Weeping.

You do not know if you weep with rage or shame or hurt or all of them at once.

You stagger into the bathing room of your suite, stripping out of clothes damp with sweat and your own slick. You reek of lust and humiliation.

You turn on the shower, as hot as you can stand it. You get in and you don't even wash, you just stand there, your back to the spray, hands on the wall, leaning, still weeping.

How could he? How could the Exarch – _your Exarch_ – stoop so low as to fuck the _enemy?_

That Emet-Selch would make the offer in the first place did not, in fact, surprise you. He was an Ascian, and there was nothing an Ascian would not do if it meant destabilizing the situation. And if it meant hurting you, all the better.

But why – gods above and below – _why had the Exarch agreed?_

Was it because you picked a fight with him yesterday? Had he turned to Emet-Selch for solace after your unfair and unkind words...?

But no, that could not be so. There had been definite _familiarity_ in the way the two men had spoken to each other. This was not the first time Emet-Selch had touched the Exarch. Not the first time he had wrapped that accursed mouth around the cock that ought to be only for you.

 _Rage_.

 _Jealousy_.

You snarl, muscles quivering. If you could get your hands on that damned Ascian...

But then you recall how he laughed at you.

Laughed, as you scrambled to your feet, face flaming. Laughed as you had gargled an attempt at an apology, and then turned around and _fled_.

You cannot deny it now. You had run away. Like a child caught misbehaving.

Like a spurned lover in some sentimental melodrama.

 _Humiliation_.

You sink to your knees, the hot water beating your skin, your emotions beating against the inside of your skull.

_Had the Exarch thought of Emet-Selch when he was fucking you?_

Clean, on the outside at least. Wrapped in the ridiculously fluffy white robe that apparently came with the room. Feet stuffed into sheepskin slippers.

You stare out your window into the meaningless distance, your eyes sore and your mind tired.

You do not want to think about the state of your heart.

Someone taps on your door. Once. Twice. Three times.

“I know you are in there. Please, let me in.”

Your voice is a croak. “No.”

“I _will_ stand out here in the hallway and yell at you through your door.”

“Go away.”

“I shall not. Let me in.”

Your feet are carrying you to the door, despite your wish to stay as far from it as possible. You do not want to see his face. You will gaze at the floor and tell him to go away and slam the door and lock it. That is all.

You open the door.

Before you can so much as open your mouth, he has shoved past you, moving around you almost as if dancing. The door slams shut and you can feel his powers barricading it.

Then your face is pressed against the wood of the door, you are pinned between door and Exarch, his hands imprisoning you, his chest against your back, his breath hot on your neck.

The Light within you, torn from three dying Wardens, shivers as if it would strike at him.

“You and I are going to talk,” he tells you, his voice rough with emotion. “Or rather, I will talk. _You_ will listen.”

“Let go of me.” But your words are dull and without heat. You do not want him to let go. You want his hands on you, you want... “I don't want to hear what you have to say.” Truth, ringing cold as crystal on the air.

You don't want to listen to him.

You want to fuck him senseless, ride him until both of you are too raw to continue. You want to make him come and come and _come,_ until he forgets Emet-Selch exists. You want him to make _you_ come, until the hurt is soothed away.

“Do not attempt to play the victim,” he snarls. He presses against you, his head tucked against your shoulder and neck such that you cannot turn your head to look at him. His hands find yours, and you can feel him through his robes, through your own robe, feel his cock against your rear end.

“I am not _playing_ at anything,” you hiss back at him, but you cannot stop yourself from arching, shoving your rear harder against the gloriously stiff cock for which you hunger.

“I will remind you of what you told me, so very specifically, the first time we made love.” His voice quivers, his body quivers, you feel him on the edge of losing control. “No strings, you said. No promises. You did not want involvement, you wanted _fucking_.”

“I lied.” The tears distort your voice. “I fucking _lied_ , okay? I just didn't want to admit...didn't want to scare you off. Again.”

“Since when have you ever frightened me?” He sounds honestly surprised.

“Isn't that why you left the way you did?” You squeeze your eyes shut, but hot tears still escaped. They scald against cheeks already raw. “All that talk about keeping Eorzea safe, but part of it was that you didn't want me to...to say...”

He no longer quivers. He is very, very still. “Say it, then.” The words are a mere breath of sound.

“Why? What would be the point? You don't want me, not really.”

His hands tighten on yours until you cry out, bones creaking underneath his crystalline fingers.

“ _Do not assume you know my heart_.” He is growling, the same way he had growled in the orchard, with Emet-Selch at his feet. “You have persuaded yourself that I do not wish to hear – but I very much want to hear you say it. Tell me.” He rattles your body with his own, grinding against you. “ _Tell me_.”

You cannot hold out. The tears choke you, but you cough the words out, through the shame and the pain and the sickening fear that you're right, that he _does not want you_ –

“I love you.”

“Louder.”

“What?” Your eyes pop open in shock.

“Say it again.” His voice rumbles against your ear. “Say it again, louder.”

“I – I – I love you...”

“Say it again. Make me _believe_ you.”

A sob racks your body. He is merciless, and does not let go, does not ease his grip on your hands.

“Why are you making me do this? Do you just like hearing me cry?”

“ _ **Fucking say it**_.”

The way he snarls that in your ear electrifies you, terrifies you, enrages you. Your mouth opens and a desperate tumble of words crowd their way out into the air.

“I love you, okay? I love you, Raha, Exarch, whatever you want me to call you. I loved you then, and _you fucking left me._ I knew you the instant I saw you. I didn't want to lose you again so _I fucking lied_ and gods dammit I _love_ you and _I wish I didn't!!_ ”

You lean against the door, letting him hold most of your weight, limp and gasping for air and choking on tears. He will drop you now, you think. He will be disgusted by this sniveling, babbling mess that you've become. He will let go of you, sneer, and walk out to be with Emet-Selch.

Because he does not love you back.

Sure enough, his hands leave yours, his weight ceases to press you into your door.

But before you can slide to the floor, he catches you, turns you, scoops you up in his arms. Reflexively you put your arms around his neck, astonished that he is carrying you. He is laying you on your own bed before you can formulate a single word.

And then he is kneeling over you, his hands on your face, ruby eyes gazing down intently.

You can see water on his cheeks, but he looks furious.

“How dare you assume you know my mind, my heart, without once asking me?”

His voice _sounds_ furious.

But his hands are tender, trembling; and the words he speaks now flutter across you, soft as doves' wings, bemusing as pixie dust.

“I have loved you with all my heart for more than a hundred years. I thought it was you who wanted no ties. I thought I was setting you free.”

He gives you no chance to answer. His mouth descends on yours, his body presses you into the mattress, and for an eon, for an instant, there is only him.

Your skin is fever-hot, and his hands are cool where he skims them across you. His mouth is _everywhere_ , feathering kisses along your limbs, tonguing your nipples, teeth grazing at wrist or shoulder or the inside of your knee.

You writhe against him, over him, your own hands busy, your own mouth tasting, exploring. The parts of him that are crystalline are cooler and yet not cold, their texture against your tongue like licking a pearl. The flesh parts of him taste faintly of sweat and he smells deliciously of ginger root and mint. His hair is finer than a noblewoman's embroidery thread, and its color fills your gaze as he rubs his cheek against yours before dragging his teeth down the line of your jaw.

Your robe fell open the moment he set you down, and now your arms are free of it, and you lie naked beneath him; but you have disrobed him – pulling away layers of silk until his left arm – the flesh arm – is exposed to your ministrations.

He hisses as you latch onto his flat pink nipple, and you growl against him, nails digging in a little as you cling to his torso.

“I won't let you go again,” you mumble.

His hands shake as he tugs you up to take your mouth in another crushing kiss. When he lets you go, he speaks one word against your lips.

“ _Mine_.”

A whimper escapes you, and your nails score his left shoulder, scrape against the crystalline planes of his right. “Only if you're mine, damn you.”

He grasps your head in his hand, and presses your mouth to his flesh. “Mark me, then,” he demands, his voice low and dark. He is panting already, his cock pressing against your leg in hot need.

He does not have to ask twice. You sink your teeth into him, biting and sucking until he cries out. When you lift your head, a dark mark already rises on the pale skin.

He gives you no warning. He moves so swiftly he might have teleported, and his head is between your legs, his hands pressing your knees open and up, and his mouth is on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh and –

“Ah!”

It hurts, but it is a glorious pain, and you almost do not want him to stop. Your sex opens for him even as he claims you as his own. He groans as he lets go of your flesh.

You shriek as he buries his face against your sex, and ravishes you with his tongue.

He knows you too well, knows _just_ where to stroke, just how to suck and how hard, and you are coming for him in mere moments, rolling your hips up as if offering supplication, hands buried in his hair.

There is no more patience in either of you. He swarms up your body, robes pulled askew, hair tangled, face still damp with your slick. You kiss him messily as he grips you, raising your knees and pressing them even as he plunges inside you.

You _howl_ with the pleasure of it.

His thrusts are wild, desperate, frantic, and as he kisses you again and again you can taste yourself on his lips and his cheeks. You are half mad with what he is doing to you, and you chase the pleasure with all the ferocity you have ever shown during a hunt, with all the single minded focus you have ever given a foe in battle.

Even as your cries build to a hysterical pitch, he begins to cry out your name – once, twice – and then he is spilling his seed across your belly, groaning as if wounded near to death. Your arms wind around him and you clutch him close, neither of you caring one bit that his robes are sopping up the mess. Of far more importance is how he presses his forehead against your lips and whispers your name one final time; how you kiss him and cradle him with arms and legs alike.

Minutes pass, and you can only stare up the ceiling, too exhausted to turn your head and look at him. But at last, you speak.

“Why? Why _Emet-Selch_ of all people...?”

“I don't know. I honestly don't know. It just... _happened_.”

“How long?”

He is silent, and you force yourself to move, to turn on your side, to stare at him.

“How long have you been...?”

“Since just before you arrived here on the First.”

Your breath stills.

“When I – when we – have you thought about him while I – ”

He glares. “You have the filthiest mind. No. _Gods_ , no.”

“And why not?” A voice drawls. “I am, after all, far prettier than she is.”

You gasp and sit straight up, hands going for a weapon that isn't there.

Emet-Selch laughs.

The Exarch leans up, not bothering to straighten his robes, though he does drape a corner of the sheet across your body. His voice is weary. “You are also incredibly rude. A man of your _advanced age_ should behave better.”

The Ascian scoffs. “I am hardly bound by the customs of mere mortals.”

“It still would behoove you to observe some sort of propriety.” The Exarch's ruby eyes glitter, and his tone is unyielding. “Especially _in my city_.”

“Hmph,” Emet-Selch crosses his arms. “Only if I can expect the same courtesy when you are in _my_ city, dearest enemy.”

“What _city?_ ” The words pop out of your mouth.

Both men look over at you. Emet-Selch looks annoyed, as at a child who has spoken out of turn; the Exarch however looks surprised...as if perhaps he'd forgotten you were there.

You swallow hard and try to bluster rather than blush. “Also, why are you in my room, Ascian? I didn't invite you.”

He smirks. “ _You_ cannot prevent me. However,” he waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, “I am not here to ogle what meager charms you might boast, hero.”

A vile curse springs to your lips, but before you get more than a syllable out, the Exarch sets his hand on your shoulder.

“Speak if you are going to speak,” he says to Emet-Selch.

“You told me to stay away while you were,” the Ascian's eyes flicker to you, then back to the Exarch, “ _occupied_. I did as you bid me, and now, I am here again.” One elegant gloved hand extends towards the Exarch. “I've come to collect you. We had not, after all, finished our...discussion.”

“I'm afraid you have misunderstood me.” The Exarch's tone is polite, almost smiling, _steely_. “I do not wish to see you again this day. At all.”

Emet-Selch straightens from his lazy leaning against the partition that screens off your bed. You take a certain spiteful pleasure in the hurt that flashes across his face before it is replaced with the usual disdain. But you know what you saw. Emet-Selch had not expected to be told “no.”

He stares hard at the Exarch for a moment, then scoffs once more, and turns away. “ _Fine_.”

It has been a week since the scene in the orchard. You have been to Amh Araeng, you have felled its Light-warden, and you have returned again.

You ache, and you cannot understand why. Ryne looks at you with concern, but will not speak. Y'shtola has all but commanded you to take to your bed.

You are not tired.

You wander about aimlessly in your room, telling yourself over and over that you are not afraid.

Telling yourself that you are not alone.

Abruptly, you tense: you truly are not alone. You can smell the shadows on him before you turn around.

The Ascian looks at you, meeting your gaze. Emet-Selch does not smile.

“I will make myself plain, pedestrian though it be. I dislike sharing my dear Exarch's attentions, but for his sake I have tolerated you. Make no mistake, hero. The Exarch is _mine_.”

“He is his own person, Ascian. You do not own him, nor do you have any rights to his heart.”

“You believe he loves you, and perhaps he does...” Emet-Selch's smile is deeply unsettling. “But will he love the monster you are becoming?” Those golden eyes bore into yours. “Will he still love you, when you kill him and drain his aether to appease your hunger... _sin eater?_ ”

You fling yourself at the Ascian, a cry of rage on your lips, but he is gone.

Fetching up against your window, you lean, gasping against the burning ache in your chest, fighting back tears. You _were not_ turning, you _would not_ turn, you couldn't let that happen. The other Scions would find a way, surely.

You start as someone taps on your door.

When you open it, the Exarch stands before you, as if he has been – fidgeting?

You let him in, and lock your door.

“How are you feeling?”

“Terrible. Which you should know, if the others reported to you.”

“They did. But I...needed to see you with my own eyes.”

“I'm not turning.”

“No, you are not.”

You gaze into his eyes, red as rubies, mysterious in their way as the Tower itself. You never were able to read his expressions or figure out what he was thinking, when you knew him before. Has he been with Emet-Selch while you've been gone? Do you really want to ask? Would you believe him, no matter what his answer?

“I'm thinking too damn much.” You wind your arms around his neck. “Care to give me a hand with that?”

He smiles.

He is gentle with you, this time, slow, even as he removes his sash and wraps your wrists. You allow it, already breathing quickly. You cannot take your eyes off of him, off his hands as he strokes you. His face is introspective, as if by studying every inch of your body, he will unlock some mystery of mysteries. Every kiss he lays upon you is reverent.

He lavishes kisses on your breasts, and murmurs your name as you arch for him. He trails his fingers, and then his tongue, down the line of your belly, making the muscles jump, making you twist to get away as he tickles you with his breath. Then when he tenderly bites and suckles, you stop twisting, and moan instead. You want to touch him, but he has bound you securely enough that you would have to expend some little effort to break free.

Lower, and lower, and lower still his hands drift, and then you feel the touch of crystalline fingers against your core and you cry out, body pleading for more.

When he slips those fingers inside you, your head falls back and you come almost instantly, hips grinding against stony digits that are yet flesh-warm.

He does not give you time to recover.

He is kneeling now, one hand pressing against your knee as his crystalline hand continues to pump in and out of you – fierce and glorious in equal measure. But when his tongue laps at your clit, everything goes dark for an instant. Your hips stutter as your heels dig into his shoulders. He does not let up, fluttering his tongue against that pearl until you come again, and _again_ , and _**again**_ –

“Please!” You cannot scream, only pant and weakly cry out, pleasure flooding you, breaking you into a million pieces. “Please, I can't – I can't – _**I can't**_ – !”

He latches onto you and you can feel him rumbling, growling, and then he _sucks_ against your flesh and you lose all control. Your legs kick hard against him, shoving him away a few inches, and your back arches to the point that your forehead is pressing against the headboard of your bed for an instant. He releases you, and the loss of his fingers is a shock sufficient to make you sob aloud.

He is over you now, pinning you, his robes sliding across skin that is already oversensitive, making you whimper. You are helpless to resist, incapable of moving away or even protesting. His knee pushes your legs apart, then his hands grasp your calves and guide them up, higher and yet higher, until you are balanced on your shoulders, your rear end off the bed entirely, your knees hooked over his shoulders. Your belly is compressed like this and you are reduced to panting harshly for air.

There is no more gentleness in him. He enters you the way a battering ram enters a citadel, but unlike the citadel you rejoice at the hands of your conqueror. His cock is harder than you have ever felt it, his eyes a clearer ruby than ever before, everything about this is more intense than any other encounter you've experienced. His teeth are bared as he fucks you without mercy, and he turns his head just enough to set his teeth against your skin, just above your knee, and bites.

The pain is as nothing, but you yelp in surprise nonetheless.

Then you plead with him to do it again.

He bites you three more times, before at last you feel the change in his pace, in his breathing, that heralds his climax.

Your eyes widen as you feel the Light inside your body coiling like a snake.

His eyes close as he buries his cock in you, as he cries out in ecstasy.

 _The Light strikes_.

Everywhere your bodies touch, Light explodes outward from your skin, and the Exarch cries out and flings himself away from you.

His robes are smoking. He pays no attention: for _you_ are on fire.

Moving swiftly he rolls you off of your bed, and then aether is wrapping around you, smothering the air, dampening and then killing the flames.

You lie on the floor, naked and weeping, hands no longer tied – the sash burned to ash almost instantly. Your bed still smolders, as does your lover.

“What is _happening_ to me?” you sob.

The Exarch, face pale and terrified, does not answer.

He helps you get cleaned up, helps your change your sheets. You are tired, now, and yet you keep nervously glancing at your hands, as if you might burst into flame again at any moment.

“I am sorry,” he tells you at last, as he tries to settle you on the bed once more.

“It's not your fault...”

“It may be, actually.” He still blushes the same way. His ears flatten for a moment. “It may be that I...ah...overstimulated you. A little.”

You can only stare at him for a long moment, until your eyes shut and your shoulders begin to shake. His hands press your shoulders, concerned, until the laughter erupts out of you; you are racked by helpless, rather hysterical giggles.

“What a fucking joke,” you manage at last. “Gods. Does this mean that any – ” you must repress another fit of giggling, “ – any _exertion_ will trigger that, that explosion?” Another giggle escapes you. “Could be useful, making myself into a bomb.”

“Not useful,” he chides you, his hands massaging your shoulders. “I do not know for certain, mind you...but I do not think that simple combat should present any issue for you.” His mouth quirks just a little. “You are, after all, quite versed in combat, and its demands.”

“And not with getting off?”

His ruby eyes twinkle. “Would you rather I said that you were unfamiliar with my demands?”

You think about it, and laugh once more. Then, you yawn hugely.

“Oh! Sorry. I guess...”

“Yes. You should rest.”

He starts to get up, and you put your hand over his. He looks down at you, his fingers curling around yours.

“Come back and check on me soon. Okay?”

He lifts your hand, and kisses each of your knuckles in turn. “Of course, my love.”

The palace of white and gold shimmers; your watering eyes do not help. Everything feels coated in treacle, sticky and sickeningly sweet. The very air carries a cloying perfume as you heave for breath, kneeling on the golden floor. You cough, and glowing white fluid spills from your mouth to spatter and dissipate.

You can hear your friends. Worse, you can feel them. Feel their shock, their dismay, their fear.

They are afraid for you.

They are afraid _of_ you.

And their fear tastes so _sweet_...

No! No! You pull your mind away from the threatening madness that circles you, and lift your head to look once more at the Exarch, standing before you, trapping you both in a circle of power.

He has been speaking. You have been trying to listen. It is difficult, his words fade in and out. But you understand what he means to do.

He means to take the Light from you, and carry it into the Rift. It is a foolish plan. He will die; he will leave you all over again.

You bare your teeth at him, wishing you could do more than that. Your aether – your Light – beats against the barrier he has erected, fighting his manipulation of it. But slowly, inexorably, he pulls and pulls and pulls...

“Raha...” you pant.

“I know,” he murmurs, and you can somehow hear him even though he is so far away, “I know. Let it go, my love. Let me help you one last time.”

_ **CRACK!** _

Your eyes widen as you watch the Crystal Exarch fall.

Behind him, gun still extended, stands Emet-Selch.

You could not even understand most of the things the Ascian had said. Your eyes had been glued to Raha, your will tangled with fighting against the swelling Light...and then you had lost consciousness.

Now, you lay in your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

You _know_ what has happened.

_Emet-Selch has taken the Exarch for his own._


	21. Foible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you love someone  
> Sometimes you love the little things about them
> 
> In some nebulous eight or ten years from "now" - Berylla's still got it, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's word was Foible  
> as in having a weakness for something -grin-

He loved her hair.

Honestly he had always admired it, from the first time he saw her – he had never seen such a red before. Red as flames, red as foxes, red as autumn maples.

So vibrant a red that one might be forgiven for thinking it was at least partially artificial.

It was _not_ artificial, as he had learned.

He watched her brushing it out as he lounged on the bed, savoring the privilege of seeing her like this – unguarded. She was not quite _unclothed_ – she was wearing her favorite robe, an elegant thing of sky blue silk that she had acquired in the Far East. But it was open, not belted, and he could see tantalizing flashes of breast and belly as her arms moved, smoothly drawing the brush through her hair.

He was well aware that many people had seen Berylla unclothed.

But only a handful had ever seen her _naked_. Vulnerable. Begging...

His manhood twitched strongly against his loose sleeping pants, and he calmed himself. Better to wait and see how she was feeling, before getting ahead of himself on what he would like to do to her...with her.

He focused again on that fox-red hair.

Her tresses were much longer now, than when they first met years ago; all the way to the small of her back, and she was quite a tall woman. She insisted that she did not pay attention to it – that she simply put it in a tail or a braid and ignored it so long as it was out of her way. He knew that she did not feel the need for any of the special unguents or expensive treatments of which noblewomen were so fond. But he _also_ knew that Berylla rarely skipped out on brushing her hair. Thoroughly.

He realized her brush strokes had slowed, and that she was watching him even as he watched her. Their eyes met in the mirror. He smiled.

“Just what are you staring at so intently?” she asked, her lips curving in a sly smile.

The minx. She knew full well how much he liked looking at her. But he smiled back, and then stretched, taking a bit of delight in giving her something to stare at for a moment.

“Your hair,” he answered, when he had finished his lazy stretch. “I shall never tire of it, I think.”

She set down the brush and came over to him, climbing into the bed and then lying atop him, lazing like some great cat. “After all these years, my _hair_ is what gets you excited?”

“Oh, not at all,” he laughed, and kissed the end of her nose. She grimaced, as she always did, and he chuckled again. Then he stroked her hair, letting the silken strands run over his fingers. “Though I confess I do have a weakness for it...but no, my love. _All_ of you excites me, as it always has, and ever shall.”

Her eyes were green as the depths of a twilight forest as she laid her mouth across his. The kiss was slow, sweet...sultry. When she let him go, his voice was husky.

“Gods, how you amaze me,” he breathed, his heart racing.

“Do I? Surely you've explored every mystery, learned every secret I have.”

“I feel I have barely scratched the surface,” he answered honestly. “But I am more than content to spend all my life learning you, my love.”

“You say the sweetest damn things,” she sighed, as he rolled the two of them over. She tipped her chin up, inviting him to kiss her neck, her hands caressing his bare shoulders as he complied with her unspoken request.

Then she ran her nails along his ribs, drawing a shudder from him.

“Shall I give you another little lesson then?” she murmured. “Since you are such a dedicated student.”

He took her mouth with his, and proceeded to show her just how dedicated he was.


	22. Do Not Taunt the Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird has warned Estinien before about her ears. Being Estinien, he does not listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARGY BARGY  
> What a word.  
> It's slang for a kind of argument, it seems, but I confess I almost couldn't come up with anything for this prompt!

Estinien was in the mood to push Nightbird's limits.

He knew she didn't like it when he touched her ears. He also knew that she loved him, and would surely forgive him a little...mischief.

She looked so adorable, sleeping as she was, curled up on the couch with her head on a pillow. The pillow had been on his right leg, but half an hour ago she'd stretched, made a little noise in her throat (which he was certain she would object to him calling a _meow_ ) and then grabbed the pillow off him and curled in tighter on herself.

He just couldn't help it.

He reached out with his right hand and held his fingers over the feathery tufts at the upper edges of her left ear, lowering them slowly, slowly...

The ear twitched. He paused, lifting his fingers just a touch...then lowered them again.

Another twitch. He grinned. Precious.

He petted the ear.

She grumbled in her sleep, and shifted, trying to turn her head away. He petted her now-exposed right ear.

“Stop it,” she mumbled, batting at him blindly. He avoided her easily, and scratched the top of her head until she sighed and was still.

Then he scratched the base of her ear.

He had seen her move fast in a fight, but he hadn't ever had her ire directed at him. Even his reactions had a bit of a limit, such as expecting to _actually be bitten_.

He stared into her eyes as she growled at him, the side of his hand still in her mouth, her fangs breaking the skin.

“Well.” He kept his tone dry, and mildly sarcastic. “The kitten does bite.”

She spat his hand out. “I fucking warned you, dragoon.”

He grinned. “I have ever been one to learn the hard way, little bird.”

She grumbled and got off the couch, and stalked into the bathing room. He heard water presently, and when she came out she was wiping at her mouth. Still grumbling, she snatched the pillow up, and then went into the bedroom, shutting the door with a firmness _pointedly_ short of slamming.

Estinien laughed. Then he got up and went to wash and bandage his hand.


	23. Ishgardian Poker Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three friends weathering the Calamity.  
> A deck of cards.  
> Rather a lot of beer.  
> No problem!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's word was "shuffle."  
> Also, I do not apologize for the gods awful pun.

The Vicomte de Borel had worked tirelessly to aid in preparing the city, fashioning the overall plan that allowed them to shore up their defenses, bring in every possible speck of supplies and provender, and most importantly, get the people inside the protection of Ishgard's wards. That last task had been monumental in and of itself.

The late nights, the stress, all of the effort of keeping up with men half his age, had put too much strain on an old and ailing heart. The Vicomte died before seeing his detailed plans carried out.

Aymeric had honored his father's memory by relentlessly hammering away at whatever task needed to be done to ensure those plans remained in place and were followed. He had even gone so far as to open Manor Borel to a portion of the refugees.

Estinien and Haurchefant had already been spending their infrequent rest time at the manor house – hiding from the Lord Commander and his cronies, if one believed rumor. But neither man breathed a word of protest when the supplies and the people started moving in.

Almost every public room in the manor was packed with bunks and cots and terrified small-folk. Only the grand dining room was untouched on the main level; even the rooms meant for family (other than the master's chambers, now Aymeric's) and the back garden were pressed into service as storage, housing boxes and barrels and bottles and bags. Most of it was foodstuffs and the like – the things that they would need to survive the coming days.

In the final push to fit more people into the house, Aymeric had ordered the large round table from the sitting room to be brought up to his chamber, and then had commandeered three of the plain wooden chairs to go with it. He had long since had the servants relocate most of the ornaments and such to the attics, but he had personally brought the boxes of cards and dice and so forth into his rooms. They had passed many a pleasant evening around this table, before the world had turned itself inside out.

And then the red moon fell, and winter descended on Ishgard.

Their astrologians had seen true, and thank the Fury that the Vicomte had believed them from the very first. Only because of their forewarning and his exhaustive planning could the city hope to survive the blizzards that swept the land and wrapped all of Coerthas in snow and ice.

The storm rattled the windows, as if frustrated that the shutters were stoutly locked. In the chambers below, children sniffled, too frightened to cry, and families huddled together for more than warmth. Fires burned, but they burned low – an effort to balance the need for warmth and the limited amount of fuel that could be stored inside the manor.

This storm had lasted two days so far; the first storm had screamed like a demented angel for three days. Every building in Ishgard save perhaps the Vault itself was snowed in.

The tension within the manor was maddening. The three friends had taken beer and food and retreated into Aymeric's bedroom.

*

“Bloody damn Garleans.” Estinien glowered at the closed windows.

“Well, there is this,” mused Haurchefant. “The Dravanians fare no better than we.”

“Aye, their numbers will be greatly thinned.” The dragoon drank the last of his first bottle of beer, and then scowled again. “If the snow ever stops.”

“It is easier to track game in snow,” Haurchefant pointed out.

“What game? Everything's going to be frozen solid.”

“Then there will be a plenitude of scavenge to be had.” The silver knight's tone did not change from one of calm certainty. “There will be fur and leather if nothing else, but I expect we can salvage even the meat. In fact, it perhaps will be better than hunting. No one need risk injury from desperate or sickened animals.”

“And what of the injuries caused by the cold and the ice?” Estinien demanded. “There will be broken bones for certain, if not broken necks. There are a lot of stairs in the city, and they will all be treacherous – and people will be foolish, they always are.”

“Estinien,” Aymeric said mildly, “you can be thoroughly depressing.”

“I'm a realist, that's all.” Estinien jerked his thumb toward Haurchefant. “He's the eternal optimist.”

“And thus my life finds balance,” Aymeric teased, “by listening to you two gripe at each other.”

“You do sound like a fishwife, Estinien.” Haurchefant belched. “Pardon. Is there yet an apple, pray tell?”

Estinien, being nearest their basket of nicked provender, reached out and grabbed an apple. He lobbed the fruit at Haurchefant's face, but the silver knight caught it easily and just grinned.

“I shall remain grateful that we are here in this house for the duration,” Aymeric said solemnly. “I confess I did not relish the prospect of being locked in at the Congregation.”

“Of being locked in with Charibert, you mean.” Haurchefant's grin died.

Aymeric gestured vaguely and drank deeply of his beer.

“One of these days,” the silver knight growled, his usually merry eyes dark, “I will catch that man at his “games.” If only he weren't so well protected...”

“Please,” Aymeric shook his head. “Not tonight. Nothing can be done now in any event.”

Haurchefant swiped his hair out of his eyes, and sighed. “As you wish.”

They were silent for a time, while Haurchefant made short work of his apple and Estinien opened another beer. Then, Aymeric picked up the deck of cards from the middle of the table.

“Shall we play?”

“Play what?” Haurchefant asked. “I shan't make the mistake of playing gin-rummy with Estinien again, you know. And we don't have enough for bridge or spades.”

Estinien's grin was smug. “Oh, so you _are_ still upset about my trouncing you, after all those protestations that it was all in fun.”

Haurchefant made a rude noise at the dragoon. “Pulling double chores for three days while you kicked up your heels at Flora's brothel was not pleasant.”

“Poker,” Aymeric interjected before the two of them took off into another mock-argument. “Five card draw.”

“But what shall we use to bet?” Haurchefant wanted to know.

“Ha.” Estinien snorted. “Worried about losing your allowance?”

“Now, now,” Aymeric waved his hand at them. “Money isn't necessary among friends.”

“No, but it sure makes things interesting,” Estinien muttered, but he smiled.

Haurchefant's eyes gleamed with sudden devilment. “Clothing.”

Both Estinien and Aymeric blinked at him.

“Come again?”

Haurchefant smirked. “Each of us will bet one piece of our clothes,” he explained. “The two who lose any given round will cast aside the item they bet.”

Aymeric's eyes began to gleam as well, and Estinien looked between the two of them, then finished off his beer. “Haurchefant just wants to ogle us, you know,” he said to Aymeric.

“You assume that he will win so frequently, then?” Aymeric inquired. Then he leaned over and grabbed a new beer for Haurchefant and one for himself, passing it across the table.

Estinien looked surprised for an instant, and then scowled. “Of course not.”

“Then you may be the one ogling,” Haurchefant winked.

Aymeric set down his beer, and began to shuffle the cards.

*

“I cannot believe I lost that one,” Aymeric grumbled. “I had two queens! That should have been sufficient!”

“Well they weren't.” Haurchefant grinned and gathered up the cards. “Come now, off with it.”

The basket that had held bottles of beer now held empty bottles instead, and a mere half dozen full bottles remained – they had set those on the table when the empty bottles had begun to get in the way. The storm raged on beyond the walls, and it was impossible to say just what time it was.

Aymeric sighed, but did not hesitate. With swift motions he stood up, shucked off his smalls, and sat back down. He tossed the white smalls on top of the pile of everything else he _had been_ wearing, too many beers ago to count.

“I shan't be able to bet anything now,” he commented, and finished his current bottle of beer.

But he sat in his chair, as comfortable stark naked as he had been fully clothed, and didn't seem to notice the gazes of his friends.

Estinien's mind was hazy with drink, and he let his eyes roam over his friend without a blush. After all, there was no harm in looking, was there...and Aymeric was indeed a very handsome man. The dragoon felt a bit warm, though at this point he was down to only his trousers and smalls.

For a moment, he wondered if Haurchefant had been cheating. The silver knight did have on the most clothing – but no, if he had been cheating, he would have more than his pants (and presumably smalls beneath) and a sleeveless white undershirt.

Haurchefant's cheeks were ruddy from all the drinking, and he smiled at Aymeric, a wide, affectionate smile. “You, my friend, are quite a sight.”

Aymeric blushed now, the color staining his cheeks and spreading to the back of his neck. He flapped his hand at the silver knight as if shooing him away. “There is nothing new here for you to stare so, Haurchefant.”

“Wait, what?” Estinien blinked at him owlishly. “You mean to say he's seen you naked before?”

“Oh far more than just seeing,” Haurchefant laughed. Aymeric, engaged in opening another beer, didn't answer, so Estinien looked at the silver knight instead.

“When?”

“For my last nameday,” Haurchefant answered easily.

Aymeric smiled, though his cheeks were still red. “I made it quite a memorable nameday, did I not?”

Haurchefant's teeth gleamed in the firelight. “Makes me wish I had a nameday every month.”

“Were you planning on telling me about it?” Estinien asked, curious. The dark haired knight shrugged.

“Not the kind of thing we speak of at meetings, now is it – and there's been no time for anything else lately.” Aymeric belched gently. “Pardon. Why, Estinien? Should I have invited you?”

“Estinien,” Haurchefant put in, “all you have to do is ask...”

“Bah.” The dragoon drank a swallow of beer and tried to pretend he was not blushing furiously. “Deal the bloody cards, you grinning idiot.”

Haurchefant laughed, but Aymeric frowned slightly. “What are we do to do about my lack of ante, then?”

“Sit this one out,” Estinien began, but Haurchefant interrupted.

“Bet a kiss.”

Aymeric considered it, then nodded. “All right.”

*

Haurchefant was, at least, a graceful loser. He didn't even grimace as he stood up and peeled out of his pants. Somehow, it didn't surprise Estinien to see that the shameless man _hadn't_ been wearing smalls, after all.

Estinien swallowed as Aymeric got up and came over to the dragoon. When the knight's hand slid into his hair, Estinien could not suppress a little sound of pleasure.

Nor could he fight the urge to lean up ever so slightly, to open his mouth and invite Aymeric's tongue. He had thought about this mouth – these lips – no, curse it, he'd been thinking about all of the man – for months and months now. Aymeric had made a few comments – had hinted – and Estinien had failed to respond.

Not because he did not have _interest_ , but...

“My, my, my,” Haurchefant drawled as Aymeric finally – reluctantly – pulled away. “I was beginning to think our dear Azure Dragoon had balls of stone. Or had taken vows.”

Estinien's face burned. “Just – shut your mouth.”

Aymeric's fingers moved through Estinien's hair for a moment more; then he let him go, and stepped back. The dragoon could not fail to see that Aymeric's cock was hard now, darkening with lust.

But his voice was as calm as ever. “If you are unhappy, Estinien...”

“Did I fucking say that?” Estinien grabbed his beer and drained it in one long swallow, as if the drink would give him courage. He set the bottle down with a clatter. The chair legs scraped the floor as he stood up and reached for Aymeric, sliding his hand around to cup the back of the other man's neck. He pressed close and his fingers tangled in dark curls as he kissed Aymeric.

Aymeric's response was immediate and quite enthusiastic. Estinien felt those strong and graceful hands smoothing patterns across his back. Their tongues tangled as he embraced Aymeric more tightly, pressing closer – _closer_ –

“Am I to be left alone over here?” Haurchefant wondered.

Estinien broke the kiss to scowl across the table at the silver knight. Haurchefant's grin didn't waver for an instant.

Aymeric kissed the side of the dragoon's neck, and murmured into his ear. “Shall I shut him up for you?”

Estinien leaned back a little to give the dark haired knight a questioning look. Aymeric smiled slightly and tugged him toward the bed. Even as they moved away from the table, Haurchefant stood up and followed them.


	24. Beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once a year the sun rises in a particular way in the highlands...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's word was "beam." I decided I'd play with a couple different meanings of it.

Coerthas was snowy all year round since the Calamity; but in winter the cold could kill, and storms raged for days at a time. The only blessing was that it was easy to see the storms approaching – and after the solstice, winter's worst was over.

Three figures moved through Camp Dragonhead's main courtyard, swathed in bulky coats and scarves and gloves.

“Why did you drag us out here, brother?” Alisaie asked, rubbing her gloved hands together. She was bundled up in layers and layers, had her scarf over her nose and mouth, and still she looked miserably cold.

Alphinaud – no less bundled up but looking eager rather than chilled – gestured to the waiting chocobos. “Let's get moving, and I shall explain on the way. Dawn will not wait for us.”

Berylla yawned. “This had better be worth me getting up at such an unholy hour.”

“Lazybones,” Alisaie muttered, teasing.

“It will be worth it, I assure you,” Alphinaud promised.

He mounted up, and the others followed suit.

They rode out to the north, and veered west – heading for Providence Point.

“Haurchefant told me of this, a long time ago,” Alphinaud began, his voice carrying in the early morning silence. “The Steel Vigil lies in ruins as we know. But even so, one particular tower still stands – in fact, there are rumors that the Dravanians intentionally maintain it.”

“Why on earth would they do that, after they were the ones to destroy the Vigil in the first place?” Berylla wondered.

“Because of today's event.”

“And you are going to tell us what this mysterious event is...?” Alisaie hinted.

“It has to do with the sun's rising.” Alphinaud's tone was a little smug. “The rest, you will have to see for yourself.”

His sister made a rude noise, but they were on the stretch of road that ended at the cliff, and Alphinaud brought his mount around in a neat circle, so that he faced east, and dismounted.

“Keep your eyes on the tallest spire, there.”

The two women followed his lead, dismounting and facing the east; their birds crowded close.

There was the barest hint of light in the east, and the stars were beginning to fade. There was a strange heaviness in the air, and the chill breeze died away to nothing. Even the chocobos were silent, still, alert – as if listening to something their riders could not hear.

The first glow of dawn limned the eastern edges of the thin, high clouds. Light warmed the bare branches of the trees, ephemeral foliage of rose pink and palest gold. Breath puffing out in front of them caught the light, the tiny ice crystals flashing, diamond dust afloat in the air. The snow pack seemed dusted with prisms.

The light grew stronger, but where they stood, the shadow of the ruined Vigil stretched out, long and blue and cold as old grief. The tower that Alphinaud had directed them to watch loomed, like the last bastion of night; as the burgeoning light bled around the edges, the tower became more of a ghost than the war of which it was a remnant.

Then the sun rose.

A lance of golden light lanced out from the dim shape of the tower, going over their heads. They followed the beam of light and saw it catching the golden spires of the Vault in Ishgard, setting the city aglow.

“Bide a moment more,” Alphinaud's voice was quiet.

Sunrise in the highlands was swift once it arrived, and he was correct – the finger of sunlight moved with remarkable swiftness, lowering, seeming to vanish into the abyss of clouds surrounding Ishgard for a minute, and then...

“Oh...”

Berylla's voice held layers of emotion – sorrow and wonder in nearly equal measure.

The ray of light, wider now, and a deeper richer gold than before, played across the white headstone. The shield, long since frozen into place against the stone, threw back the light, momentarily whole once more through the illusion of bending, blinding sunlight.

And standing before the stone, a phantom of a man, arms wide. He laughed, silently, and grinned at them. Then he turned to look out at Ishgard.

The sun continued to rise, and the light ceased to shine through the tower. The blue shadows returned, seeming darker, but only for a moment. The phantom remained, seeming to glow faintly – a man made of Light.

He looked over his shoulder at them all, and beamed at them. In the silence, one could be forgiven for imagining that his voice whispered across the distance between them. “Farewell.”

Then the sun rose above the Vigil, and the world was awake with mundane chattering of birds and beasts.

Berylla turned to look at Alphinaud. Tears reddened her eyes and her cheeks, but she was smiling. He, too, had wet cheeks as he moved closer and put his arms around her. He was tall enough now that he wasn't terribly awkward, despite the bulky coats.

Alisaie joined in the hug, and the three of them leaned their heads together for a moment as Berylla sniffled once or twice.

“Haurchefant only mentioned how beautiful the winter solstice sunrise was from this spot,” Alphinaud murmured.

“It certainly was beautiful,” Berylla answered. “Thank you, darlin'.”

Around them, the world went on, life went on, as it always had done, and always would.


	25. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Francel has perhaps had a little too much to drink, or not enough.  
> Hilda is fine with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word of the day was "wish" and Francel piped up in my head and took over a bit.  
> I had promised smut with these two, but I'll have to elaborate on the sweaty bits some other time.

“I wish,” Francel de Haillenarte said, out of nowhere, “just sometimes, I wish I were a woman.”

Hilda let out a curse, and stared at him for a moment. Then she passed him a fresh bottle of beer. “Why would you wish such a damned daft thing as that?” Her ruby eyes glittered at him as she took a long swallow of her own beer.

“I could have done things differently,” the young lord mumbled. He was rosy cheeked, and more than a little tipsy. Hilda – sometimes still affectionately called “Mongrel” by those closest to her – was used to much stronger drink than this, and was stone cold sober.

But she didn't seem to mind that Francel couldn't hold his liquor the way she could. Honestly, she seemed to mind very little. He knew she had a temper, but in all the time he had worked with her, not once had he ever seen her get in a huff about something.

“Maybe I would have been better off,” Francel said, and fumbled his beer open. “Maybe I wouldn't have had to hide out in Coerthas for a year. Maybe I could have been like Lanaiette. Or like you.”

“Like me?” Hilda nearly spit out her swallow of beer. “I'm nothing like any of your fine ladies.”

“That's not – what I meant.” Francel hiccuped. “Y-You're bold and, and you can do whatever you want...”

Hilda glared at him. “Settin' aside whether or not I can do whatever I want,” she said slowly, “what makes you think havin' a pair o' tits gives me any privileges?”

“Wha – wait, what?” He blinked at her, owlishly. “But you – you practically rule the Brume.”

“Not because I'm a bloody damned _woman_ ,” she snapped. “Are all nobles this stupid or is it your special talent?”

“H-Hey,” Francel frowned, “I did not mean to anger you, my lady – ”

“An' quit callin' me _lady!_ ”

He fell silent, just staring at her for a moment, then turning away.

They sat like that for a while, in an uncomfortable silence.

The two of them were perched up on top of one of the piles of partially broken down rubble, in a section of the Firmament not yet on the roster for more than preliminary clean-up. It was a quiet spot, one of the few in the Firmament these days. Adventurer types were not minded to let the time of day stop them from getting some sort of work done, and even in small hours one could hear hammers ringing from the Mendicant's Court. This particular place was theirs, in a way. They'd been meeting up here for weeks, with no overt discussion of the matter.

Between them sat a large basket, loaded up with a few food items and more than a few bottles of good Ishgardian lager. Francel had provided the food; Hilda had picked out the beer.

Francel had never had this kind of beer before.

Hilda eyed her companion. Francel had turned so that his legs hung over the edge of the block of stone, his back towards her. His shoulders were hunched. Like a puppy who'd been kicked, she thought for a moment, and her lip started to curl, until she recalled the nasty little rumor that had gone round the Brume for the better part of a year.

Her temper had always been – as Ser Aymeric put it – mercurial. She didn't give two hoots what anyone called her, or her temper. She knew, however, what she wanted. She had planned this little outing with a certain amount of care...she just hadn't expected the young lord to be hit so hard by the lager. He could guzzle cider all night...well, that was neither here nor there.

“Oi.”

He sat up a little, and looked over his shoulder at her.

“Hurry up an' finish that,” she told him. “Me arse is getting' cold.”

He blinked a couple times, then did as she said, draining the bottle of beer and then setting it with the other empties with typical fastidiousness. Hilda got up and grabbed the basket. “Come on, then,” she said to the nobleman.

He rose, graceful despite his drunken state, and followed her without question, even though she had never before asked him to walk with her like this.

She had gotten to know Francel a bit over the past months. Their work threw them together quite a lot, but finally Hilda had enough bodies in the Hounds that she could actually take a day off, once a week. She'd begun spending some of that free time with the young Haillenarte lord purely out of a lack of anyone else to associate with. Or rather, anyone else _pleasant_ to associate with.

Some few of the younger nobles had taken it into their heads that she was “eligible.” While it had been entertaining the first few times to take the wind out of their sails, ridicule them, and run them off with the foulest street language at her disposal...it became very tiring, very quickly. Francel had never made any fuss over her, and had always acted with the same kindness towards her as anyone else – be they noble, peasant, Brume rat, or adventurer.

He had been restful to be around.

Sometime in the last couple of months, “restful” had ceased to be the word for him in her mind.

And she was going to find out, tonight, whether or not her interest was actually reciprocated or not.

He was drunk enough to be tractable, and followed her home without even blinking until they were actually inside her modest little flat.

“I – ah,” he stammered, “I don't wish to impose – ”

“Get inside, you're letting in a draft,” she said over her shoulder. “If I didn't want you in me sittin' room, you wouldn't be here.”

He obeyed once more, shutting the door, and then stood, seeming not to know what to do with himself. After a moment, he grabbed his hat off his head, and then held it in his hands, turning it by its brim.

She set the basket down on the tiny table in what she laughingly called her “dining room,” and went over to poke up the fire. It wasn't much of a fire – but she had managed to score one of the new models of heating device that Cid Garlond was offering. She hadn't got one for free the way the Congregation had, but Garlond had been willing to vastly reduce the asking price...

So the place was warm without needing the fire. She just liked having the cheery glow of the flames...and it warmed the bear skin rug right nicely.

She rose from her task and looked at Francel. He looked back at her, green eyes a bit wide, and she grinned.

She crossed the room, and stood in front of him, her hands on her hips.

“You already know I ain't one to beat around the bush,” she began, “so I'm askin' you up front. I want you to stay the night with me.”

He didn't start, didn't stammer – though he did swallow visibly. “W-why? What do you...intend?”

She tilted her head. “Naught less than sleepin',” she answered. “Maybe a tumble, maybe not, but sleepin', aye, that for certain.”

 _Now_ he looked startled. “I thought you were angry with me.”

“Oh I'm right annoyed with you,” she nodded. “But I also fancy you, and I ain't never been one to let my _wishes_ wander on past me.”

His mouth opened, then shut. Then: “Are you quite certain...Hilda?”

She didn't expect the tingle that ran across her from hearing him actually say her name. He never had before, she realized. Always formal, always “my lady” and “good Captain” and all that sort of rot.

She lifted her chin. “Always.” She gestured to the door with one hand, and kept her expression pleasantly neutral. “Lock the door if you want to stay. Or go if you'd rather.”

Then she turned, and stepped back over to her tiny table, shedding her jacket.

He hesitated only an instant. She smiled as she heard the lock click and the bar drop into place.

Then she heard a soft rustle of cloth, and glanced over her shoulder to see him hanging up his coat and his hat with somewhat exaggerated care. Problem being, she didn't have a coat rack...

She couldn't suppress the chuckle at how her armor stand looked, draped in Francel's coat, with his fancy hat perched atop it.

He crossed the room, and she turned around to face him. He came to a stop in front of her, but did not try to touch her. He ran one hand through his hair, and offered her a shy half-smile.

“I confess...I do not...quite know what to do.” His cheeks were red from more than being tipsy. “It has been a very long time, since...”

“Don't overthink it,” she suggested. “Have you _ever_ just cut loose, Francel?”

“Cut what loose?”

She saw the twinkle in his eyes, and made a face at him. Then, she closed the distance between them, and leaned up, settling her hands on his shoulders. She tilted her head, and had to stretch up on tip-toe to bring her lips close to his. But she did not kiss him. Not yet.

His hands went to her waist, and his eyes gazed into hers, not blinking.

“Anything that happens from here,” she told him, her voice gentle, “happens because you say yes. Anytime you want to stop, we'll stop. Agreed?”

“Yes.” The simple word was loaded with meaning, and she felt him shiver under her hands.

She closed the tiny distance that remained, and laid her lips over his.

For a moment, it was a chaste kiss, a hesitant thing, as he eased closer to her. The pressure of his lips against hers was a question; his palms pressed against her back lightly, as if she were delicate as a sparrow.

She opened her mouth just a bit, and stroked his lips with the tip of her tongue.

His eyes closed then, and he shuddered. His mouth opened for her, and his hands slid down to cup her rear end, hitching her close to him, nearly lifting her off the floor. She tightened her arms, curling them around his neck, and deepened their kiss.

Francel felt as if he were dreaming. He squeezed the shapely ass in his hands, and Hilda nibbled at his bottom lip. The haze that the beer had draped across his thoughts was rapidly burning away in the heat of her kiss, her body. It had been so very long...

He hadn't touched anyone, man or woman, since Haurchefant. He trembled, half afraid that he would shame himself and finish before they had even properly begun. He had wanted her for a long time – he wasn't even sure when he had begun to feel attracted to Hilda. In this moment, he felt as if the meeting of their lips was something fated to happen, something he could not have avoided if he had tried...

Hilda's nails scraped the back of his neck as she pressed herself even closer to him, and he shuddered for a completely different reason. He eased her back, settling her on her feet again, and gently tugged her hands down, guiding them to go around his waist. He held her in a hug, and tried to let the shakes pass. She was utterly unlike Charibert, he told himself severely. Those fears had no reason to flare into his mind. Charibert was _dead_ , safely _dead_ , and would never hurt anyone ever again.

Hilda rested her cheek against him, and heard his heart hammering in his chest, felt how he shivered. The rumors had been true, then. She sighed very softly, and then leaned back so she could look at his face.

“Let's go lie by the fire, hmm?”

He nodded, and let her take his hand as they moved across the room. He let her guide him down, let her persuade him to lie on his stomach. He focused on the dark violet of her hair, the faint scent of gunpowder that rose from her clothing.

But when she straddled him, he made a noise of surprise and tried to lean up on his elbows.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Hilda chided. “Be still.”

He turned his head, peering over his shoulder at her. She perched, her thighs pressing against his waist, and then her hands were on his shoulder blades, making soothing circles.

He lay his head back down, letting his forehead rest against his arms, and sighed.

Hilda massaged the tight muscles in his shoulders and upper back, paying attention to where the worst knots were and rubbing her thumbs into those spots in particular. Through the pale-yellow silk of his shirt she could feel his skin – and the scars marring him.

She frowned.

“What on earth happened to you?”

He was silent for a long moment, and then: “It was...a long time ago.”

Hilda was no stranger to the ways in which a person avoided painful memories; and though she was hardly any kind of genius, she was perfectly capable of putting two and two together. She had a pretty good guess exactly who had hurt him, and when. “A long time ago” had nothing to do with actual time; it was merely code of a sort, a way of trying to skirt the pain, as if pretending it was not there would cure it.

She slipped her hands down, shifting herself enough that she could get at the place where his shirt tucked into the waist of his pants. “May I?” she asked, tugging at the fabric to let him know that she was asking permission to bare his back.

Another of those suppressed shivers. “Yes.”

She pulled at the silk, loosening it, and gently pushed the fabric up to just under his shoulder blades. Francel shifted just enough to let the shirt move.

He was pale, of course – for an instant she admired how lovely his skin was; many a noble maiden would weep to have such fair, smooth skin...but they would not be so fond of the ribbons of pink that marred the white.

Seven scars, pale pink yet. Less than three years old, these marks; she was all too familiar with the ways scars healed. She traced one of them with a gentle fingertip. They were not random; the bastard that had inflicted these had been quite deliberately making a pattern on Francel's back. But the pattern was not complete: someone had interrupted the grisly “artwork” and it remained unfinished.

Her eyes stung for a moment. She had seen young women driven mad by Charibert's “games.” That Francel was demonstrably _not_ mad was...

“How can you believe yourself weak?” she asked him.

“What? I...I'm afraid I don't follow you.”

“You said you wished you were a woman. Like you thought it'd make you stronger.”

His breath hitched. “I...yes, in a way you're right. I feel very...unmanly. Frequently.”

Hilda snorted. “Never had any use for the sort of shite that people expect to make a person “manly.” Or womanly for that matter. No different than rich or poor. We're all people, we all take a piss of a mornin'.”

She grinned as she felt him laugh beneath her. “The things you say,” he sighed, but it was said fondly.

“So talk to me, then.” She resumed rubbing his back. “It's obvious something happened.”

She knew that talking it out would do him far more good than harm. It might mean she didn't get to roll him tonight, but she found she didn't mind. If _she_ had anything to say about it, Francel would be visiting her more than once...

He was still tipsy enough to obey. She felt him hesitate after he began to speak, felt the tension under her hands as he considered what he was saying to her, and likewise felt him make the decision to keep talking.

He told her about Charibert and how the man had managed to capture him and spirit him away for a time. How he had been rescued. How he had been sent into the hinterlands, to get him away from Ishgard, from Charibert...from the memories.

How Haurchefant had done more to help him heal from those memories than isolation could have done.

“I loved him,” Francel sighed. “I wish now that I had made that more plain to him.”

Hilda slid off of him, and lay on her belly, leaning up on her elbows. She nudged her shoulder into his arm. “I didn't have much to do with the man,” she said quietly, “but from what I've heard of him, I expect he knew.”

Francel turned onto his side to face her, resting his head on his hand.

“You are a most unusual lady, Hilda.” He lifted his other hand and put his finger over her lips. “I know you don't like the word, but I mean it only with the deepest respect.”

“And is your respect all I have, then?” She asked the question without placing weight on any of it, unwilling to pressure him.

His fingers curled under her chin, gently urging her to lean closer. “My respect,” he answered, “my admiration, my interest...you have them all. If you were to ask for more, I would be delighted to discuss it.”

Then he kissed her, a simple press of lips to lips, and let her go.

“Then let's discuss,” she murmured, and pressed herself to him.


	26. Manure Proof What?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's pink and cute and makes Alisaie smile a lot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was all I could think of and I do not apologize.

_What_ _**is** _ _that thing?_

I watched, nonplussed, as the pixies congregated around the creatures, piping voices even more shrill than usual with excitement. I glanced over at Alphinaud, and saw that he was as perplexed as I was; but when I looked to my left, Alisaie was smiling.

Not just smiling. _Grinning_. She looked absolutely enchanted.

I looked back at the three critters that were getting so much attention.

Flat snouts and curly tails and the soft, rounded figures of young boars, making snuffling little snorts like boars, little cloven feet tapping on the infrequent cobblestones of the half overgrown road on which we stood. But they were not boars.

They lacked the coarse dark fur, or stripes, or tusks, or bad attitude.

They were, emphatically, _pink_.

Also, they had very... _large_...ears.

The pixies were cooing and giggling over them, and I could see that they were also casting some sort of magic over the three creatures. I waited until it looked like there was a break in the spell-casting at least before clearing my throat.

One of the pixies glanced up, and fluttered over to us. “Hello, hello!” it caroled. “Come to play with the porxies, have you?”

“The – I'm sorry, the _what?_ ” Alphinaud asked.

“They're porxies! Haven't you ever seen one?”

“No,” I answered. “Never seen anything like them. What are they?”

“Isn't it obvious?” The pixie tittered. “They're pixies but they're pigs, little porkers, aye?”

Alphinaud turned his head, and his eyes met mine.

“Don't look at me like that,” I said, feeling defensive. “It's not like I named them.”

“Yes, yes it is,” he growled softly. “Exactly as if you made up the name.”

Alisaie spoke. “May I pet one?”

Her brother and I both turned our attention to her, frankly staring. I had never, in all the years I had known the twins, heard Alisaie sound so...so...

“Oh my, yes you may! Come and play, come and play!”

Without batting an eye, Alisaie went right over to the little knot of – _porxies_ – and knelt down, holding out her fingers.

One of them snuffled over to her, nudged the offered fingers, and then looked up into her face.

And then its ears – those ludicrously huge ears – _unfurled_ , and _flapped_.

I put my hand over my mouth. Alphinaud crossed his arms.

The porxie flew into the air, and Alisaie stood up, clapping her hands together like a little girl. Her eyes sparkled as the creature flapped in a slow circle all around her. And then – in a saccharine voice that was so out of character it was almost alarming – she started calling to it.

“Come here, boy, come here, do you like to be cuddled, hm?”

I bit my hand.

Alphinaud's sigh got my attention, and I looked over to see him with his hand over his face, as if his eyes hurt.

I managed to contain myself, and spoke to him, quietly so that I wouldn't be overheard.

“I don't think I could ever have imagined a sight like this.”

“Oh,” Alphinaud sighed, “I could, but I did not like to.”

“What, why? She's so...” I choked a little. “Happy.”

Alisaie didn't look happy, she looked _enraptured_. And thoroughly silly. And adorable. I was losing the fight not to burst into gales of laughter.

“I know the saying is “When pigs fly,” but I never thought I'd see it come true so literally.”

Alphinaud just sighed, a deep and long suffering sound. “We won't hear the end of it if she doesn't obtain one of her own, you know,” he grumbled.

“Well, I suppose I'll need to invest in a manure proof parasol then.” I gave in, and started to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a specific image that had inspired me for this piece, but I realized I can't just post the image here, as that's not going to lead back to the artist properly.  
> (I did not realize this problem when I made the post originally. Mistakes made, lessons learned!)  
> Here is a Twitter post that shows the image:  
> https://twitter.com/L_LMIN/status/1232930735423516672  
> And I'll edit with a further link to the original artist when I can!


	27. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berylla visits Amaurot for a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A free day, and various thoughts banged around in my skull today, but then I found myself wanting to just sit in Amaurot, doing nothing much.
> 
> Obviously, 5.0 spoilers are within!

I slept for two days straight when we returned to the Crystarium.

The Light was gone from me; I was no longer being poisoned by too much power for anyone sane to take on. There was no ghost in my room anymore either. The privacy felt strange still.

There were nights again, and the days were full of busy chatter and all sorts of meetings, planning sessions, community discussions – the people of the Crystarium were more than happy to work with the folk from Eulmore, and both groups were eager to start the long process of reclaiming their world.

There were still sin eaters. There was still the fact that ninety percent of the First was utterly dead, aether locked in stasis, in the endless blinding desert they called the Empty. Ryne had some notion of exploring that place, but she and Thancred had firmly told me that they'd let me know when they needed me. _If_ they needed me.

G'raha had slept, for some amount of time – no one seemed to know how long, of course. Even now that he was willing go about with his hood down, face revealed, he kept plenty of secrets.

Lyna wasn't going around the city looking pissed, so I figured he was doing all right.

Everyone else – all the Scions – were resting, relaxing, and I wasn't about to bother any of them. They had earned some quiet.

We all had.

So, it was very _quietly_ that I left the Crystarium, and returned to the city beneath the sea.

To Amaurot.

The city had not changed. Even though Hades was gone, the buildings and the strange shades were still there, still moving about, still responding to my presence.

I wandered the enormous streets. I felt as if there were something calling to me here. Was it only that this ancient world – this interactive museum of sorts – resonated with who I used to be? Hades had all but told me that I was familiar to him. What did he mean?

And Hythlodaeus...

“Hello, my friend.”

I stopped. There he was, sitting on a bench, as if he had been waiting for me.

“Hythlodaeus.” Saying his name felt...good. My heart fluttered a little. I cocked my head at him, and wondered out loud, “How did you know me? Back then?”

He seemed to smile. “That would be telling. We were friends. Do not trouble yourself further than that. It will only make your head ache, I expect.”

“You...are you all right?” I climbed up onto the bench, and touched his leg. “Since Hades is...”

“I am well.” His hand came up and he patted my head. I couldn't repress a giggle. I felt like a toy next to him, but it was simply amusing. He was definitely smiling now. “You look as if you feel much better, yourself.”

“I do. Kind of.”

He held his hand out to me, and without even thinking about it I climbed up and let him set me in his lap. For a minute I just balanced there on his leg and then I gave in and snuggled. His hand tucked against me, supporting my weight as I leaned into his robes.

I felt like a little kid.

It was nice.

I reached for his fingers – the end of his thumb was bigger than my fist, but he held my hand between thumb and first finger with all the delicate care one might use when touching a butterfly.

He wasn't warm. He didn't have a scent, either. He was a ghost...sort of.

He was the most comforting presence I had been around in a long time. Purely comforting – there was comfort for me with Alphinaud, but there was so much more than that. Hythlodaeus had a presence that made no demands, hung no hopes on me; a simple acceptance that I was here, that I would leave, that I would perhaps not come back, or I would return. It was all okay with him.

It wasn't a feeling that I didn't matter. He just – wasn't worried.

“I didn't want to do it, you know.”

He understood what I was talking about without my having to go over all of it. About Hades, about Emet-Selch, about the destruction and the murder and all the chaos that had ensued in the last few weeks.

“I know.”

“Why...” I shut my eyes for a moment. “I guess there's no point in asking why it had to be like this. It's too late to change it, isn't it.”

“That is not something I can really answer. I am only a shade, after all.”

“No, you aren't, but hells if I know _what_ you are.” I plucked at his robe, then smoothed it back down. “Other than my _new old friend._ ”

He laughed. It was an odd sound, coming from such a huge body, in that chiming, resonant voice. It made his whole torso move, jiggling me around a little bit.

“Berylla? Berylla!”

I looked up, hearing Alphinaud's voice.

“Your friends are looking for you,” Hythlodaeus observed.

“One of 'em, anyway.” I considered. “Do you want to meet him?”

“Do you want me to?”

“For all I know, you're a figment of my imagination and will vanish the minute Alphinaud comes into view.” I laughed a little as I hopped down onto the bench again. “Not that it would surprise me to find that I've gone completely crazy, after everything.”

“You are more sane than might be expected,” Hythlodaeus answered.

Alphinaud came around the corner, and I saw him casting his gaze around.

He paused for a moment, looking baffled as I waved to him. Then, he came closer and stood looking up at me.

“You have a bad habit,” he told me, “of not leaving messages when you go somewhere.”

“I did too leave a message.”

“A scrap of paper with 'Back in a bit' scrawled on it is _not sufficient_.” He crossed his arms. “We worry about you.”

“ _You_ worry about me. Everyone else is fine.” But I smiled. “Come up here. I want to...”

I glanced to the side, about to gesture to Hythlodaeus – and blinked at the empty space where he had been.

Alphinaud tilted his head, and for a moment I thought he might demand that I come down, that I leave and go back to the world above us. I was glad, when he started climbing onto the bench.

Once he was up beside me, he touched my shoulder.

“Are you well?” he asked. “You look...forgive me, but you look oddly perplexed.”

“Because I am.” But I managed a small laugh. “It's not important.”

“Why did you come here, Berylla?” He rubbed my shoulder a little, and I sighed.

“I don't really know.” I shrugged. “It just feels...something about this place is so _familiar_ to me. I can't figure out why. But I'm...” I looked away from him, knowing he wouldn't understand. “I'm comfortable, here.”

“I should think you would be the opposite of comfortable,” he commented, “given the events that took place here, and the state you were in the last time you visited.”

“That's just it. None of that...” I tugged at my hair a little, frustrated, trying to find the words. “Nothing here makes me think of that. Mount Gulg...” I shivered. “I don't ever want to see _that_ place again. But here...” I looked out over the vast and elegant city. The view from this spot was, for a moment, so familiar it hurt. The same kind of hurt I felt when I saw Haurchefant's portrait in Aymeric's garden. Something well known, but forever lost.

“This was home, once,” I whispered. “And I miss it. Even though I don't remember much about it, I remember how it _felt_.”

To my surprise, Alphinaud's arms went around me. His voice was quiet. “Very well. I cannot claim to understand, but I will sit with you – if you will allow?”

I hugged him and rested my forehead against his for a moment, to pretend my eyes weren't stinging.

“I'd like that.”


	28. The Path of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is more precious than treasures and gold? Knowledge.  
> What is more fragile than glass? Peace.  
> What is more important in all the world than knowledge, and peace?
> 
> Family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of the day: "irenic"  
> aiming at peace

“My lord, the envoys have returned. They are en route to the Forum's halls at this very moment.”

“Thank you,” Forchelnaut Leveilleur replied, nodding to the messenger. “Please, make certain that word reaches the other Forum members, that they may assemble.”

“At once, my lord!” With a bow, the messenger dashed away.

Forchelnaut took a small breath and let it out again. “Well, Father,” he looked to the older man beside him, “Perhaps we will be pleasantly surprised.”

“Perhaps.” Louisoix's face stayed calm, but both men knew full well how unlikely it was that the Garleans had chosen to see reason.

They made their way to the Forum chambers.

The great bell was struck. “The Forum has decided,” intoned the herald, and with a great rustling shuffle of robes and barely hidden yawns, a hundred people rose. As they exited the chambers, there was little conversation – everyone was far too weary to do more than head straight for their beds. The water-clock showed that it was nigh on three in the morning – not the longest Forum session on record by any means, but certainly one of the most fraught.

Forchelnaut had not risen with the others. He had sat, with his head in his hands, just waiting. The great chamber emptied, slowly, and when the last straggler had left and the great doors had shut, only then did he stand. His father had been among the first to leave. Forchelnaut thought back a little, and could not recall a single time before this that his father had left him here rather than walking home beside him. He realized that Louisoix had likely packed his things and left already.

Well. He was a man grown. He did not need his father to hold his hand, confound it all.

But the night seemed colder as he made his way back to his mansion.

Valeriane was asleep in their bed. Finally clean and more than ready to rest, he got under the covers, only to feel her turning over and reaching for him.

“Did I wake you?”

“No.”

There were only two possibilities as to why his wife would still be awake at this hour.

“The medicine...?”

“No.” She curled into him and he held her tight. “The astrologians reported. While you were...”

He tried not to sound too eager. “And?”

“The stars appear to favor us.”

He pulled back just enough to look into her face. Maybe it was his imagination, but her eyes seemed to almost glow with joy.

The bitterness of his father's departure faded in that glow, and he embraced his wife, weariness forgotten.

Four years.

Four years of preparations, of arguments over points large and small. Louisoix's wanderings had taken him far, and his letters had been few and very brief; the distance between Forchelnaut and his father pained him. But he was mostly too busy to do more than miss his father's gentle, supportive presence. Moving an entire city, and all its wealth, and most especially all its knowledge, was a gargantuan task. Five years was not truly enough.

The Gubal Library had been gutted. The only things left within it were the copies of books; every single scrap of original material – bound or not, written or not – had been removed in the very first year. The tools and most of the tradesmen were long gone. A good half of the Forum members were gone ahead to the island as well, there to ease transition as they could.

So much had been preserved. So much would yet be lost.

But as time had gone on, Forchelnaut had grown more and more resolved that this was the only way. Five years ago he had only needed to protect his people, and what he could of their culture.

Now...he had something far more precious to defend.

He sat in their garden, basking in the late afternoon sun, a moment of peace and quiet among the frenetic final phase of the Exodus, as they had come to call it. In his arms he held the most priceless treasure in all the world: his daughter.

Valeriane held their son. _Twins!_ After so long and arduous an effort – to have _two_ such perfect little beings – Forchelnaut could not find words, even now, three months after their birth, to express his feelings. He thought perhaps he never would.

Val looked at him across the little space between the two benches on which they sat, and her smile made his own smile grow the larger. She was so very happy.

The only thing marring this incredible joy was the Exodus itself...and the absence of his father.

He had sent word of course – but there had yet to be any sign of Louisoix, and no answer.

Still, there was so much to be done, Forchelnaut had not been able to spare time for a second message.

He gazed down into little Alisaie's face, and tried his best to let go of worry and just enjoy this moment.

The sun had only just set, and the Forum chambers had officially shut for the day – though in reality a certain amount of business still got done after hours. But Forchelnaut could go home, for once. He could leave the paperwork to others, now that the plan was nearing its end.

He stepped out into the twilight, and headed down the grand stairs.

Just as he reached the bottom, a figure stepped into his path.

He stopped in his tracks, blinking in surprise, and then smiled. “Father! When did you return?”

“I have only now arrived,” Louisoix answered. He looked tired, and thinner than he had when he had left the city. “I have much news of the world, my son, and very little of it is good.”

“We have been receiving regular reports as always,” Forchelnaut began, and then shook his head. “Let us speak more at home. You look exhausted, Father.”

Louisoix looked like he wanted to argue, and then he sighed. “Very well. You are correct; I am greatly fatigued. The lands of Eorzea suffer, and my travels were...troubling.”

Forchelnaut held in what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell his father not to return to those savage lands beyond their borders; to tell him that those barbarians did not deserve his time and attention. He wanted to protest that such travels, in such places, was too dangerous for Louisoix to undertake all alone. He wanted his father safe at home.

But he knew all such protests, all such opinions, would fall on deaf ears. He knew that Louisoix's preferences had always involved adventure just as much as academia. He would not stifle his father in some misguided attempt to protect him.

“Val,” Louisoix glanced over at him. “She is well?”

Forchelnaut blinked, surprised again. “Did you not receive my letter?”

“The last letter I had from you, son, was a year ago.” Louisoix's brow wrinkled.

Forchelnaut nearly stopped in the middle of crossing the street. He cleared his throat, perturbed. “I have been sending letters every three months...”

“Something went wrong, then. I shall have to look into it. Later.” Louisoix's eyes fixed on his son. “What news, then?”

That did make Forchelnaut stop walking, though by now they were on a relatively quiet stretch of path, and not in the middle of traffic. He faced his father and set one hand on his shoulder.

“You are a grandfather, now.”

Louisoix's face went completely slack in shock. For a moment, Forchelnaut wondered if the older man would weep. Then, Louisoix's arms went around him and his father hugged him, as he had not hugged him since he was a much younger man.

Forchelnaut hugged back, for the moment not caring about the dignity of his position, not caring who might stare.

“All else can wait,” Louisoix told him as he let go and straightened. “Let us get home as soon as possible!”

The babies adored Louisoix, and he of course doted on them. “Look at these perfect little hands!” he said, for what was surely the third or fourth time. “They'll both be fine mages, you can see it already.”

Forchelnaut could not help laughing. Valeriane looked amazed as much as amused. Neither of them could ever have imagined the usually solemn arch-mage as being so...bubbly.

Alphinaud's chubby little hand reached out to grasp Louisoix's finger, and the old man crooned down at him. Beside her brother, Alisaie made a little grunting sound, displeased, and waved her hands vigorously, unable to quite reach the smiling face above her. Louisoix shifted over, obliging her, and she promptly latched onto his beard with both hands, hard enough to pull herself up an inch. He let out a little “oof!” of discomfort, and Alisaie giggled.

Val sucked in a breath and hurried to detach her daughter from her father-in-law, though Louisoix was now laughing heartily.

“She is already a fiery one, haha!” Louisoix wiped laugh tears from the corner of his eye. “They are utterly precious, son.” He reached over and patted Val's shoulder. “And I am most glad to see that you are well. It cannot have been easy, carrying twins.”

She shrugged a little, smiling. “I confess, I am glad to longer be pregnant. But they were worth every moment of morning sickness, every ache in my back. All of it.”

“Indeed.” He returned his gaze to the infants, who had gone still, just watching the adults with wide eyes. His own expression grew still and thoughtful for a moment. “I owe you something of an apology, my son.”

“Eh?” Forchelnaut could not help it. “Whatever can you mean, Father?”

“I left here angry and disappointed in the Forum's decision.” Louisoix spoke slowly. “I should not have treated you with such acerbity as I went, however. Though I still do not agree with this Exodus...I came to realize that I did not wish to lose contact with you, with my family.”

He looked up, and Forchelnaut stood, gaping for a moment. Louisoix rose from his chair, and went to his son. “You are all that is left to me of my beloved Adelaide. I would be a fool – many times over – if I were to let this stand between us. I am sorry.”

“Father...” Forchelnaut glanced away, and took a long breath, shoving down the urge to sniffle. “Father, there is no need for apology, there is nothing to forgive. You have done me no harm...”

“Will you allow me, then, to reverse my decision, and come with you all?”

“W-w-will...” Forchelnaut set his hand on his father's shoulder. His voice was tight as he struggled to control himself. “ _Of course we will_. You are, you were, you will _always_ be welcome in our house.”

Louisoix hugged him, and this time, Forchelnaut did not resist the urge to weep. Val stepped close, and Louisoix's arm reached out and lay across her shoulders, including her in the embrace for a moment.

The three of them shifted apart, and then turned to look at the babies in their bassinet. “I still believe,” Louisoix said, “that Eorzea needs us. But for now...” He smiled, and patted his son's shoulder. “These little ones need us more. I shall defer involving myself in any wars for a time, and walk the path of peace.”

“Those are the most welcome words I have heard in four years. Thank you, Father.”


	29. Paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien isn't sure what this feeling is...

“Out! Go on, git!”

Estinien found himself standing outside the bedroom door, two bundles in his arms, blinking. He wasn't entirely sure just what had happened. For a moment he scowled, and contemplated kicking the door down.

But no, that would upset Nightbird, and Fury, she didn't need more to handle today.

Which yanked him back to the two small, warm beings in his arms.

Daughters.

 _Twins_.

Hyacinth, and Marigold. They were so tiny! He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about holding them, yet.

He turned away from the door and walked carefully into the sitting room. The bassinet was already set up near the sofa, but he didn't even get the chance to think about setting down one of the infants.

“Is she okay?”

He rolled his eyes at Berylla a little. “She's fine. They threw _me_ out, though.”

“I guess us martial types are too brutish to watch them wash her, or whatever.” Berylla grinned. “So. Are your arms tired yet?”

“Never,” he scoffed at her. “Idiot.” But he smiled a little, and when the tall redhead stepped close enough, he let her ease Hyacinth from his arm to hers.

There was a small sniffle from Marigold, and he bent his head, checking to make sure she was all right.

“Two girls?” Berylla's voice had become rather hushed, and he looked back up at her. He grinned at the completely foolish smile she wore as she gazed down at his other daughter.

“Two girls. And before you make the joke, I'm hardly disappointed.”

“I would never,” Berylla stuck her tongue out at him, before going back to making moon-eyes at the baby.

The door to the cabin opened, and a white head peeked around the corner. There was a noise – Estinien would have called it a _squeak_ in anyone other than Alisaie – and then excited chattering out on the porch.

He braced himself.

But to his surprise, though the entire horde of their friends did come inside, they were quiet and calm. Their smiles were enormous and he found his face aching as he grinned back. He had never smiled so much in all his life as he had these past few days.

Aymeric's eyes were tender as he came to stand where he could look over Estinien's shoulder, and down at the baby's face. “I see they did not take after their father,” he commented. “Fortunate for them.”

“Hah, fuck you,” Estinien chuckled. Then, on impulse, he turned, and set Mari into Aymeric's arms. To his delight, the nobleman was utterly shocked, and stood there holding the infant with far more care than needed, face rather pale and eyes wide. Estinien grinned again, satisfied with himself.

That started the chatter – but it was still a much quieter chatter than he had feared. He must have seen dozens gatherings over the years, for new babies, for before the baby came, for the name-days, all the excuses families made to gather together and have a party (and sometimes even celebrate, too). It seemed to him that the smaller the child involved, the shriller everyone became.

But not now, not here, not these folk. He watched as Alisaie testily corrected Aymeric's grip on Mari, as Alphinaud accepted Hyacinth from Berylla – and for a long moment he struggled to put a name to the feeling rising within him. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this warmth, this strange and tingly emotion that had his eyes stinging – just a little.

Aymeric's arm went around his shoulders in a brief but warm hug. “They are both beautiful, Estinien. And Nightbird?”

“She was tired, but the midwives threw me out before I could ask if she wanted any visitors.”

“I am tired, and I am sore, and I will be _happy_ to sit down for a while,” said a voice behind him, “but I most certainly want to see everyone.”

He turned and went to Nightbird's side. She was wrapped in a very fluffy robe, and he could see she had on sleeping clothes as well, but she was smiling despite the pinch of weariness around her eyes.

He could hear the three midwives murmuring to each other, and understood that they were yet cleaning things up from the birthing. He was just as glad to not need to worry about _those_ details.

He helped her to the big armchair – and she let him, smiling and giving him a kiss on the cheek. Her hand slipped into his, and she squeezed – telling him without words that she was truly all right.

Berylla came right over and hugged her friend, and then there was minor chaos as everyone gathered around and settled into seats. Hyacinth had begun to snuffle and fret by then, and Alphinaud brought her back to Estinien before sitting down beside Berylla on the couch. Alisaie gently laid Marigold in Nightbird's arms, and then plopped down in a chair with a happy sounding sigh.

“This is why we do all the things we do,” she said, to no one in particular, her eyes shining. “For moments like this and for the children – the ones who hold our future.”

“I'll thank you not to load the troubles of the world's future onto their shoulders just _yet_ ,” Estinien told her. “They'll have enough to handle just growing up.”

“Especially with you as their father,” Berylla joked. “You did get told, don't go jumping about with them, right?”

He made a rude noise at her, and she laughed, pleased with herself.

“More seriously,” Aymeric said, “have you made any plans as to how you wish to handle these next few weeks?”

“We're both staying home for the time being,” Estinien answered.

Nightbird nodded, and added, “There is nothing going on in Ishgard that requires my presence; I can keep in touch via link-pearls and letters, and let my underlings do most of the work.” Her amber eyes twinkled with mischief. “Since I know how to _delegate_ , unlike certain commanders I know.”

Berylla hid her grin – poorly – and Aymeric shook his head and did not rise to the bait. “Milinne told me – again – to let you know her offer stands. The house has room and to spare, any time you might wish to visit.”

“She is most eager to spoil every child you will bring into her reach,” Nightbird laughed. “How is Hara, by the way?”

“School trip, right now,” Berylla answered. “The class was headed to Uldah for the day. I vetted all the chaperons myself; they should be fine.”

The talk continued in similar, thoroughly domestic veins for a long time, until finally Nightbird yawned. At that point, there was another flurry of farewells and hugs and kisses, and then they all took themselves out, heading back to the Bronze Lake resort, where they had taken rooms.

Both the girls were in the bassinet, now, asleep, little hands just touching.

“The most marvelous babies,” Nightbird crooned, and then yawned again.

Estinien went to look into their bedroom, and found that everything was not only cleaned up, but that the women had gone to extra trouble, bringing a little vase of fresh flowers and turning the bed down.

Just as he was turning back towards the hall, the oldest of them came into view, from the direction of the wash-room. “Ah, she is tired now?”

He nodded, a little wary – this woman was very competent but she was not familiar to him. Too, he had no idea what needed to happen next.

She gave him a small smile, though her tone was brisk. “For tonight, we'll watch over the girls,” she told him, “and let m'lady get a good rest. Then tomorrow, we will help her start to learn what to do.”

“You'll be teaching me as well,” he said, in a tone that left no room to argue.

She looked surprised, but then nodded. “As you wish. Ser Aymeric contracted with us to stay to the end of the week. That should be enough time for you to get settled.”

“Thank you.”

She inclined her head, and then went to get Nightbird.

The singer let the woman help her only to a point. “I can manage getting into bed on my own,” she smiled. “Thank you. We will be awake quite early tomorrow, is that correct?”

“Yes, m'lady. Best to get as much rest as you can.”

“I understand. Until morning, then.”

Estinien shut the door as the midwife made her way out, and then crossed the room to put his arms around Nightbird again. Then, he scooped her up in his arms and deposited her on the bed.

She laughed quietly, and tugged at him. “Come now, my love. I don't need to you stand vigil over me in my sleep.”

He blew out the lanterns in the room and then obeyed her. The moon rose over the lake, and the two of them lay, slightly propped up on the pillows, and just watched the play of light on water for a time.

“This will likely be the last quiet night we have for a long time,” Nightbird murmured. “I admit, I'm a little nervous now that they are _here_.”

“They are too small to cause us much trouble,” Estinien reassured her, and frowned a little when she began to giggle. “What's so funny?”

“Ow, haha, ow, hahaha...oh,” Nightbird held her stomach. “Oh it hurts to laugh, but...haha...oh my love. You haven't seen the kind of trouble children can make. I am certain we will both be run ragged, driven to distraction, and our patience tested a thousand times, before our daughters see their first nameday.”

“Eh,” he shrugged, “sounds like a calm year compared to watching over the city.”

She snorted, and then snuggled into his shoulder. “I suppose for you, oh dragon slayer, mere infants might not be so intimidating. But they will still exhaust us.”

“Then I will be exhausted.” He held her to him. “I admit, I am not sure that I will be very good at this...at being a father. But I am very sure that I will not give up trying. And I am sure of one other thing.”

“What is that?”

He tipped her chin up and kissed her. “That I love you.”

She sighed against his lips. “I love you, Estinien.”

Then she eased herself down into the covers, and swiftly fell asleep, nestled against him.

Estinien stared out at the lake for a long while after that, thinking on how much his life had changed. On how much it would continue to change. A future unfolded before his imagination like no other he had ever contemplated.

He had never been a man for sentimental musings. But this night, for just a little while, he allowed himself the softness of imagining such a future, a future filled with friends, with love and warmth and the sound of children laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happiness, Estinien. It's happiness.


	30. Splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you have done everything  
> and saved nothing  
> What next?

The world had been on fire, tortured by our nightmares, by powers out of our control.

So many dead, to save it, and yet...

It had not been saved.

Another attempted solution, still wielding forces we did not fully understand.

And now...

This.

I struggled to hang on for just a few more moments. I knew I did not have long, but perhaps if I could but imprint enough of my memories – of the important ones – perhaps there was a way...

For one bitter moment I found myself cursing the names of every member of the Convocation. If they had only listened to me, maybe we wouldn't have lost everything.

But no. No. I bore responsibilities in this disaster, this calamity, just as much as any of them.

I wept, my tears splashing across the crystal in my hands. I could no longer feel my feet. I was disintegrating. I had to hurry.

Hear and feel and think, Hydaelyn had said. The second drinker of lives. I did not trust Her – but there was no alternative, no other being that could stand against the forces we had battled. And I did not believe that our battle was over.

Fourteen splinters.

The source of our souls, and thirteen pieces, broken away. A single beautiful chord, and thirteen overtones resonating above and around, harmonizing, and yet disjointed, marring the perfect sound. The light of one sun, fractured through prisms dark and pale.

They were suffering, on those shards. Every person, on every star, cried out. Fainter than the voices had been before: but more numerous. Fourteen times more numerous.

Echoes; no, less than that.

Echoes of ghosts.

For none of them were whole, none of them were quite human. Not human as I had known it.

As I poured everything I was into the crystal, formatting it and storing whatever I could of my “self” - my memories, my very soul – I could not look away from the circling shattered remnants of my people. I could not deny that they were withered, faded, tiny wisps compared to what they had once been. I grieved for the losses.

Yet I could not let them go. Damaged, yes. But precious, even so. Precious as they always had been for me. Precious beyond price, beyond pride, beyond words...

I could see that my body was fading. The crystal in my hands was more vivid now than my hands themselves were. I was almost gone. I could feel myself going.

With what remained of my strength, I lifted the crystal that held all of me it could, and hurled it towards the great, blue construct that hung below me.

I had done all I could. I had fashioned my essence into a sword for Hydaelyn. Now, She would have to wield what was left of me. I did not know if my “self” would remain within that crystal. The soul had never been my field of study.

What waited for me, now?

Perhaps I would see the faces I loved, once again. Perhaps, at last, I might rest.

I let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Moen Moen and to all my friends at the Book Club for this wild ride!
> 
> There is a collection being made for Book Club entries which you can find here:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252464/collections
> 
> If you want to come hang out with the crazy-talented (and sometimes just crazy) folks in the Book Club:  
> https://discord.gg/8C6ZKTj
> 
> And thank YOU, lovely readers, for also coming along on this strange journey!


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